


One for the Road

by solojones



Series: What He Likes [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Cocaine, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solojones/pseuds/solojones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And if I'd paid you to mind the door whilst I shot myself in the head, would you have done that, too?"</p>
<p>After a year and a half of tracking down Moriarty's network, Sherlock is finally ready to return to London. But Irene won't let him go without confronting him about his addiction, the pain she's caused him, and their feelings for one another. Sherlock isn't about to make this easy on her. </p>
<p>The fifth and final story in a series about Irene minding Sherlock whilst he shoots up and tracks down Moriarty's network. Can be read alone, but delivers maximum angst in context.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This is the final short story in this series, but at 6 chapters it's much longer than the others. It's also the only story that really requires some context. If you want to understand the troubled backstory Sherlock and Irene deal with here, you should read the short story 'A Special Occasion' that precedes this. But for maximum angst, you might want to read this whole series of short stories. Hello again and thanks to those of you who've been doing so!
> 
> The Shalom Hotel Tel Aviv is a real place, and the rooms really are as described. Even the see-through bathrooms. Google it. I didn't just invent that for sexiness. 
> 
> WARNING: This story contains a dark, mature depiction of drug addiction.

The local drugstore certainly wasn't the most chic place to pick up wine. And it didn't escape Irene just how symbolic this was of how her life had changed in the last two years. But at 8pm on a Friday in Tel Aviv, most of the proper stores were closed for the Sabbath. And there were some decent 100 shekel wines to be had at this store. You couldn't blame a girl for being a bit desperate. It had been a long day of work and sometimes you simply needed almost any kind of drink. As Irene picked up her chosen bottle and started to round the tall shelves of wine, she stopped short at the sight of the slender, dark-haired man a few aisles over.

It had been five months since Sherlock Holmes had essentially dragged his drug-addled, horribly mortified self out of her flat the last time. Five months, and she had truly and fully come to believe she would never see him again. Either because he would avoid the chance of ever looking her in the eye again or because he would go on another binge, this time alone, and would wind up ODing. She tried not to think about that, though once in a while the image would come to mind and turn her blood cold. But now here he was, a bit bruised and scraped but looking better than the last time she'd seen him. Sherlock Holmes, buying medical supplies in her drug store in Tel Aviv, when he could have been literally anywhere in the world right now.

Now Irene needed something stronger than wine.

Ducking back behind the wine rack, she felt secure enough to watch him a moment. He was gathering up various sizes of plasters, gauze, medical tape, and antiseptic cream.  _Having another good week, then_ , she mused, thinking of the various injuries he'd sported the times he'd dropped in. She knew the work he was doing taking down Moriarty's network was dangerous. As she watched him head to the counter and purchase a slew of medical supplies, she was reminded that this was yet another thing that could have killed him. Irene closed her eyes briefly.

Then, making a decision, she set the wine she'd chosen back on the rack and discretely followed Sherlock out the door. It was risky, but she wasn't about to let him go. Not when she had feared he was already dead by now. Even keeping about 20 metres between them, she knew he might realise someone was following him. After all, if he didn't have that kind of caution, he wouldn't have made it this far. But after a block or so, Irene realised there was something different about Sherlock's gait, his stance, everything. He was hurrying, sure, but he didn't seem to be glancing around or nervous at all. It worried her a little. Did he care so little for his own safety that he'd given up precaution?

Irene was further surprised when he entered a small boutique hotel on the beach. The Shalom Hotel Tel Aviv, the sign said. An expensive, sophisticated sort of place by the looks of things. Not at all what she expected. Living on a budget and trying to avoid any special attention, she'd have figured Sherlock had mostly stayed in grimy budget motels for the past eighteen months. A fancy hotel on the beach with very few rooms and an attentive staff who would remember all their customers didn't fit at all.

Watching from outside the doors to the hotel lobby, Irene saw Sherlock make his way through the lobby filled with wing-backed, nicely upholstered chairs. He headed into the back and presumably towards some stairs. If she lost complete sight of him before he got to his room, it would be a chore to figure out where he was. Not impossible, but it would certainly take time and Irene was feeling quite impatient. In fact, she realised her heart was pounding more rapidly than usual as she stepped into the lobby and strode confidently but calmly to the back stairwell.

Making her way up the stairs cautiously, Irene glanced around the corner at the first floor landing just in time to see Sherlock disappearing into a room at the far end of the hall.  _An ocean view room to boot_ , Irene thought. Quiet, private. Well that part was like Sherlock at least. So were the white washed wood-panelled walls with their thick navy and white striped upholstery. The whole thing reminded her a bit of her flat in Belgravia, actually. Irene felt a strange pang of homesickness. It was a few moments before she slowly made her way down the hallway, walking lightly, though she wasn't sure why. It wasn't as though she were going to break into Sherlock's room. He'd obviously know she was out here sooner or later.

But as she approached, Irene realised she hadn't really got a good idea what she was going to say. When Sherlock had left her flat five months before, she'd realised how thoroughly she'd lost his trust. Even if he believed her pleas that she wasn't trying to manipulate him, their last encounter had to have been thoroughly embarrassing and damaging enough on its own. She hadn't stopped him leaving then because he'd decided he couldn't see her anymore. And now, she realised, he was certainly sticking to that. He was in Tel Aviv and hadn't even bothered to look her up. Clearly Sherlock still had no desire to see her. That was enough to give her pause.

But standing outside his door now, Irene could faintly here him moving around inside. He was  _here_ , on the other side of this door. Irene didn't believe in fate or destiny, nothing so trite as that. But she did believe in seizing the moment and having no fear. She'd spent five months worrying about Sherlock, wondering if she should have stopped him from leaving before, if it was only her pride holding her back from saying what she had really wanted to. She certainly knew that she'd badly mucked up her chance to explain herself the night after they'd nearly slept together. She'd given him the impression that she'd only been doing him a sexual favour, and it had devastated him. In the months since then, it had devastated her. There'd been many things she wanted to say and didn't. Many she was sure she'd never get the chance to say to him. And she'd be damned if she was going to pass up such an opportunity again.

Reaching her hand up and forcing an outward air of confidence, Irene knocked assertively on Sherlock's door.

The rustling sounds inside abated. Even though she couldn't hear it, Irene would bet anything that Sherlock had approached the door silently. He had to be well practiced at such things by now. Irene tried to look neither smug nor terrified as she folded her arms across her chest and waited. The glass of the peephole in the door darkened, the only indication that anyone was directly on the other side. The eye slid away. There was a long, pregnant pause. Irene was starting to consider that Sherlock might actually ignore her when she heard the latch click softly.

The door eased open painfully slowly, and then only halfway. Sherlock stood there with his left arm behind the door as if it were a shield. Irene surveyed him calmly. He looked less sickly than the last time she'd seen him, and she could only pray he wasn't using nearly so much cocaine. Perhaps he was even off it entirely after risking dying in her flat five months earlier. Still, he seemed flustered and a bit worse for the wear. He'd already put a small Elastoplast on a cut beside his right eye, but there were several long scratches on his face left exposed to the air. Even with his chest halfway concealed, Irene could see that he'd undone his shirt and was probably about to tend to a patchwork of scrapes and bruises there.

Irene took all of this in with a cool sweep of her eyes, then turned her gaze up to him. She was surprised that he was meeting her eyes at all, his expression one of practiced detachment. But it didn't last long before he looked down, breathing deeply as if trying to remain calm. She'd wager there weren't many things that could throw off Sherlock Holmes these days. But to her surprise, Irene found she wasn't really proud of being one of them anymore. She waited several seconds before realising he wasn't collecting himself to speak to her; he didn't seem to be planning on saying or doing anything, really. Raising an eyebrow, she prompted, "Are you going to say something?"

His head lifted slowly, and he glared at her. "You knocked on  _my_  door."

"And you opened it," she pointed out.

"I was afraid you'd only break in otherwise," he replied. In fairness, that wasn't entirely unprecedented. "How did you find me?"

"I saw you in the drugstore and followed you here," Irene explained plainly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You just  _happened_  to be in the same store at the same time as I was? It's not even your neighbourhood," he pointed out, and Irene didn't miss the suggestion that he'd intentionally chosen to stay away from her flat.

"I'd been out at dinner and was grabbing some wine before I went home," Irene asserted. He still seemed incredibly suspicious. Swallowing her pride, Irene said, "Look, I'm sure both of us are capable of standing at the threshold trading barbs all night, but I'd much rather dispense with that and come inside where we can properly talk."

After studying her a few moments, Sherlock took a step back from the door. "Talk all you like. But I've got nothing to say," he said flatly, turning and heading back into the room.

Irene let herself in, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock was standing by his trove of medical supplies laid out on the desk. He finished removing his shirt and started dabbing the antiseptic cream onto his scrapes. Irene looked away from him to take in the room. It was open and very comfortable and posh looking. The headboard was upholstered in the same silk striped fabric as the hallways, though with extra adorned patterns in gold thread. Everything else was white or lightly crisscrossed in grey. There was a large soaker tub by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean. The bathroom off to her right was peculiar, with surrounding walls made entirely of glass, opening it to the rest of the room. There was an optional privacy curtain on the outside for good measure.

Irene nodded in approval, looking back to Sherlock. "Very nice hotel. We could almost be in a seaside town back in England." Sherlock said nothing, occupied with trying to tape a piece of gauze to a large gash on his right arm. "Need some help?" Irene asked.

"Why, do you want to be paid to be my nurse this time?" Sherlock asked acidly, glancing at her only briefly before he continued taping the dressing down. Irene swallowed, stung by the comment as she wagered he hoped she would be. Sherlock continued, "And just so we're clear, when I told you last time that I didn't want you to touch me, I meant that unconditionally. If you have something to say, spit it out and be on your way." The sharp edge in his tone surprised her, though she supposed it shouldn't. After all, he'd seemed thoroughly humiliated and, though she would never use these words to him, broken-hearted when he'd left her flat before. Unfortunately for him, the fact that he was still so hurt by what had happened only told her his sentiments towards her hadn't changed.

But she couldn't just spit out what she had to say. In reality, she hadn't any idea what she wanted to say to him or what she could say to mend things between them. She'd reacted on instinct following him here, and now her mind was spinning for something solid to grasp. Changing subjects, she nodded at the scrapes and bruises covering his arms and chest. "Where are those from this time?" she inquired.

Sherlock hesitated only momentarily before saying, as if giving a favourable weather report, "Well I've just come from killing Sebastian Moran about, oh, three hours ago, out by the Dead Sea. And he wasn't too keen on the idea, hence all of these."

Irene's eyes widened, her throat constricting in fear just at the mention of that name. From what she knew, Moran was Moriarty's top lieutenant, the one almost certainly in control of his network since his death. He was also a fierce fighter, shooter, and the man who'd been assigned as John's personal sniper in Moriarty's morbid trap for Sherlock. So to hear Sherlock mention so flippantly that he'd just  _murdered_  Moran… Irene's heart was pounding and all she was doing was standing still. "God," she breathed finally, trying to focus enough to make sense of it all. Setting aside the notion of Sherlock having fresh blood on his hands, Irene asked, "So what does that mean? For the network?"

"It means," Sherlock said, pausing to rip open an Elastoplast wrapper with his teeth before he set about applying it to a deep puncture wound on his left shoulder. "That Moriarty's network is effectively defunct."

Irene held her breath a moment, staring at Sherlock for signs of a reaction. He had to realise how huge this was, but he was characteristically unshaken. Irene was forced to prompt him. "And what does that mean for you?"

Now Sherlock hesitated, sounding slightly more circumspect as he said, "I fly back to London tomorrow afternoon. I'd have gladly gone tonight if I could. Moran's body is in a sinkhole by the sea, but I left his possessions in plain sight. He should be found by hikers or bathers in a few days. Which I dare say Mossad will be happy to hear about, given his connections with Hamas… still, I'd rather not be in Israel when that happens, just in case. But I had to make my flight a few days ago, and people don't always step into a trap precisely on schedule."

Irene tried to hide her surprise and lamentation at hearing he would be leaving the next day. "Lucky I happened to see you when I did, then," she said.

"Is it?' he asked beneath his breath.

"You were going to come through Tel Aviv without ever seeing me," Irene pointed out.

"That was the plan," Sherlock muttered, affixing one final dressing. "But evidently you have something terribly pressing to discuss."

He was more right than he knew, but Irene wasn't half prepared to talk about it. He was leaving tomorrow, which both meant he wouldn't be here much longer and that he wasn't running off right away. If only she could find a way or the time to put her thoughts in order and express them to him. As it was, all she could say was, "I don't. I only wanted to see you."

"Well," Sherlock said, looking at her icily as he pulled a syringe and familiar vial out of his bag. Irene's stomach churned and she closed her eyes briefly. It had probably been too much to hope that he'd quit entirely. What motive did he have to, really? "You can see me as I celebrate my final victory." Irene felt as if her body were made of lead and she could only watch as Sherlock plopped down on the edge of the bed and quickly drew up some of the cocaine solution into the syringe. He cleaned his right elbow with an alcohol swab. Then he set the vial aside, swapped the syringe into his left hand, and began pumping his right fist as he looked around his arm for a vein. It all happened with such practiced and casual efficiency that Irene barely had time to collect herself before Sherlock had slipped the needle in, evidently much more practiced at using his left hand now than he had been over half a year ago when he'd broken his right. The idea made her heart ache.

Sherlock pulled back some blood in the plunger, and Irene didn't have to think twice about what she wanted this time. He was going back to London, which was supposed to mean the end of his nightmare. But it wouldn't be if he just kept on like this regardless of accomplishing his goal. Sherlock had faked his death, had thrown himself into his own personal hell to save people's lives. It was damned well time someone tried to save his.

In a flash, Irene was crouched down in front of Sherlock, her hand covering his left one, stopping him just as he was about to depress the plunger. "Let's have dinner," she said, desperately.

Every muscle in Sherlock's body tensed under her touch and at her words. At first he didn't look up. His jaw was working angrily and his lips trembling with the effort to stay calm. His breathing had become deep and shaky. When he finally looked up from his arm to meet Irene's eyes, the mixture of fury and pain in his expression cut her to the core. "Is this why you came here?" he nearly hissed. "To mock me?"

Irene's face softened to a degree it never had around Sherlock, perhaps around anyone. She looked at him genuinely, without pretence, as her hand held onto his steadily. "I'm not mocking you, Sherlock. I mean it. Is this really how you want to celebrate being free of all this? Going home?"

Sherlock still looked angry but sounded forlorn as he replied, "Wanting doesn't factor into it."

Irene swallowed against the lump in her throat. She couldn't see this again, or do this. Too many times she'd pushed the plunger down herself, either literally or metaphorically. In a lot of ways, she felt it was her fault he had got to this point in the first place. But no more. This wasn't what he liked. And it certainly wasn't what she wanted for him. Continuing to stare at him compassionately, Irene said, "What you want  _should_ factor in. It always should have." She drew a breath. "I know it might seem easier to try to forget about everything that's happened between us. But that's obviously not true. You clearly haven't, and I know I can't. There are so many things I need you to understand…" she trailed off, uncertain of where she was going, but encouraged by seeing his anger faltering ever so slightly.

Slowly, she lifted her other hand and placed it on the arm the needle was sunk into, gently pulling the arm away, the needle sliding out of the vein along with a drop of blood. Sherlock was trembling ever so slightly with the effort to remain calm. Irene held his now uncertain gaze. "How can you have forgotten what you deduced all that time ago, back in London? You were right about me and how I felt about you. Don't you remember that?"

"Things change," he replied tightly.

"They do," she agreed. "And they have. A lot of it's been for the worse. But that doesn't mean that  _sentiments_ have changed." She swallowed, feeling a bit uncomfortably exposed by saying those words. "We're complex people you and I. It's why we were drawn to one another in the first place. Don't you think," she said slowly, giving him a slightly challenging look, "that this is a mystery that warrants full exploration to comprehend?"

Sherlock looked wary, clearly aware that she was playing to his natural desire to tear things apart, to look at them from all angles and make an informed deduction about them. But it didn't seem to make that desire of his any less, going by the way he pressed his lips together in frustration. He was teetering on the edge of his decision. Quietly, Irene added sincerely, "Please, Sherlock. I mean it. Have dinner with me?" From the look on his face, Irene knew she had him, and so did he. His curiosity had got the best of him in the end. Whatever deductions he'd made about Irene obviously hadn't set completely right in his mind in the last five months. Sherlock Holmes couldn't resist a good mystery, and this thing between them was certainly that. He nodded in defeat, and she took the syringe from his hand and pulled away. "Can I get rid of this?" she asked softly.

"If you like," he replied, sounding roundly defeated, as if he had stepped into yet another trap he couldn't escape from. She hoped he wouldn't remain this miserable all through dinner, but right now she was content that at least she could toss some of this awful stuff out. She grabbed the vial and headed into the bathroom. Through the glass walls, she could see Sherlock standing slowly and grabbing a spare shirt from his bag as she emptied the cocaine into the sink. By the time she had tossed the syringe and vial into the bin, Sherlock had his new shirt tucked in and buttoned up.

"You don't know how glad I am that I ran into you. To have a chance to see you again, but without all the other things…" Irene trailed off.

Instead of looking relieved by this notion, Sherlock looked very much like someone preparing himself for a slap. As if he were steeling himself against a pain yet to come.  _Of course, why shouldn't he expect that from me?_  Irene thought, her chest constricting painfully at the realisation. _That's what always winds up happening, isn't it?_  Sherlock's eyes were on the floor as he said tightly, "Can we go?"

Swallowing and composing her voice into a natural timbre, Irene replied, "Of course." Sherlock waited for her to walk by him before he followed. As they walked down the hallway and headed down to the hotel's restaurant, Sherlock kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his face composed into an unreadable mask.

* * *

Sherlock remained taciturn and miserable-looking all the way through the process of being seated at the restaurant and placing their orders. The silence was unbearable, but Irene couldn't break it until they knew the wait staff would be leaving them alone for a while. She couldn't exactly mention Sherlock's cocaine addiction while people were hustling and bustling to and from the table every couple minutes. They may not have all spoken English perfectly, but both she and Sherlock valued discretion immensely.

When the waiter had finally collected their menus and disappeared, Irene stared across the table at Sherlock, who had managed to collect himself just slightly. He still seemed on edge, but not quite as defeated as he had in his room. "So," Irene began as she unfolded her napkin into her lap. "I'll dispense with small talk, which I know we both loathe." She paused, reflexively waiting for his thanks, which didn't come. He took a sip of his water and said nothing.  _This might be harder than I'd thought¸_  she realised. There were a number of things she still wasn't sure how to approach herself, and his attitude wouldn't help that. Still, oddly, there was one area they'd grown quite comfortable with over the past year. Giving him a steady look, she said, "So you're going back to London. And what about the drugs? Are those coming, too?"

He looked up at her, surprised at her bluntness. After a second, he seemed to realise the familiar territory himself, morbid as that was, and said , "No. I'm quitting. I have to."

That made her feel a little better. At least he was acknowledging that he should stop using. But then again, he'd done that five months ago as well. Granted, then he'd made no promises that he was actually going to try to give it up. Now he said he was, but she didn't feel terribly confident about that. "So upstairs before, that was what? One for the road?" she asked. He nodded curtly. "And now you'll quit just like that?" she asked sceptically.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Yes, not that it's any business of yours."

"That's not what you've been telling me for the past year," she pointed out. "In fact you've made it very much my business." Though she realised that was as much her fault as his, she couldn't resist being contrary. It had always been a fault of hers.

"And then I relieved you of that," he pointed out, smiling humourlessly. "Yet here you are."

Irene's face fell a little. "I'm here," she agreed with a nod, trying to make it more of a show of support than of obligation. "I only meant that I'm sure it's not easy to do something like this on your own. Are you going to a rehab program?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not even officially alive."

"Surely Mycroft can rectify that," Irene ventured. She knew the elder Holmes had been involved in Sherlock's faked death and presumed he'd help get Sherlock reinstated to life. The younger Holmes said nothing, but she took that as affirmation. Then she added, "Maybe he could also help you with this problem…" she trailed off at the look on his face.

Now Sherlock's jaw muscles clenched in anger. In a low voice he said, "It will be a cold day in hell before I tell him about the drugs or ask for his help with it. It would only give him something to gloat about. And it's on account of him all this happened in the first place." He was gripping his water glass tightly in his fist, though he didn't seem conscious of it.

Irene wasn't going to touch that one. Sherlock wasn't wrong to resent his brother, and knowing Mycroft Holmes even in the limited way she did, mostly through Moriarty's provided files, she certainly wouldn't want to beg the man for help either. "Fair enough," she said. "Still, going cold turkey has to be quite a challenge."

"Done it before," Sherlock countered, raising his glass and taking a large swallow of water to calm himself. Though according to those same files from Moriarty, Irene recalled, said periods of sobriety hadn't been terribly long lasting. Not until he'd properly gone to rehab and had John as his flatmate following that, keeping him out of trouble. "It's a few rough weeks mainly," Sherlock continued. "It's not a strongly physical addiction like heroin or even alcohol. Cocaine addiction and therefore withdrawal is primarily psychological in nature."

"Mind over matter, then," Irene said a little flippantly, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her water.

"Precisely," he replied seriously. It was obvious he'd worked this all out and convinced himself precisely of how it would go. "I'll be back in Baker Street and back to work. I won't have any need for the drugs then. I didn't before," he pointed out.

Aware of just how many assumptions he seemed to be making, Irene was much less optimistic. In particular, he seemed to take no account of the fact that certainly things would have changed for John and Lestrade and everyone back in London in the wake of his death. He couldn't simply stroll back alive and except nothing to change, or expect to simply ignore the fact that he'd spent the better part of a year high and gravely depressed. Still, she'd seen Sherlock accomplish all sorts of things. He was no usual case in any respect. Perhaps if he had some help… "You'll tell John, then?"

Sherlock stiffened, giving her a hard stare. "Absolutely not," he said thinly. "There's no reason for him to ever know. And in fact I very much hope to keep it from him. The last thing I need is the further humiliation of John knowing that I-" Sherlock stopped abruptly, seeming to realise what he was saying, and looked away for a moment. But Irene already knew what he was thinking. It was everything Sherlock had been humiliated for  _her_  to see. He didn't want John to know that he was weak, that he'd given in to his addiction again, that he'd let himself become so debased and wretched. All of the things that Irene had seen and realised over the past eleven months... well, Sherlock could hardly look her in the eye anymore. And yes, she'd unwittingly inflicted tremendous personal injury on top of that, wounds that she could tell were still gaping open. But his addiction itself was enough to be ashamed of. Of course he didn't want to experience that burden with John. Irene's brow drew up in sympathy and she stayed quiet. It was a moment before Sherlock composed himself and said flatly, "I'm not going to speak to John or Mrs. Hudson until I'm well again."

_He says, as if he had a bad cold he didn't want them to catch,_  Irene thought. Frankly, she was astounded. "So you're going back to London to what, sit in a hotel by yourself and detox?"

"Something like that. I'd also like the chance to observe any new routines or changes with John, as far as I'm able. I've had no news about him since I left. He hasn't even updated that stupid blog of his," Sherlock grumbled, taking a large swallow of water.

Irene's first instinct was to ask why he couldn't stay here and if he would accept her help, but she instantly cut off that line of thinking. He had just killed someone here and, as he said, it might be best to avoid Israel for a while. Furthermore, she knew precisely what sort of response she'd get for such an offer of help. Still, the idea of him sitting alone in some hotel for a further couple weeks, probably going through hell, made her heart twinge again. That was a nasty habit it had picked up over the last year. But really, what was she supposed to feel knowing Sherlock would be suffering on his own? He really ought to ask for John's help. She knew he was worried what his friend would think of him, but Irene wagered the doctor would be fairly understanding. Goodness knew the man was tolerant of Sherlock's other foibles. And John was incredibly protective of his friend, or had been where Irene was concerned. She couldn't imagine him passing judgment on Sherlock now.

But it might not matter. It was enough that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to tell John about it. Irene knew how deeply ashamed he was of all of this. The worst part for her was how badly she'd been enabling him all along. Perhaps even driving him to further use in some ways. When she'd thought about it over the past five months, it had made her feel physically ill. Irene couldn't fathom now how she had ever thought that this was something Sherlock liked. Even the times the drug had boosted his confidence towards her, made him bold enough to express some of what he was feeling, things had turned out dreadfully.

Irene closed her eyes against the volley of images, words, and feelings that came rushing to her unbidden. There was absolutely nothing in it that she felt proud of in the least. She was brought back to the present, thankfully, by the wait staff arriving with their food and setting it on the table. A 'thank you' and a 'more water, please, yes' was hardly enough to fully distract her, though. Once the waiter left, it was her turn to look miserable. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, however, now that he had the excuse of his food to focus on. He certainly wasn't going to make this any easier on her. "Sherlock," she said, attempting to get his attention. She hoped he would look at her, but he didn't. "I know I have no ground to stand on when it comes to the drugs. I'm the one who didn't stop you in the first place. Or the fourth, for that matter," she added quietly.

Now he did glance up, though warily, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Well, hindsight," he muttered, taking a bite.

Irene shook her head slightly. "No, it's not that. I knew at the time it was wrong.  _Every_  time. I could see what it was doing to you."

Sherlock swallowed and set his fork down slowly. She noticed his hand was trembling. He took a drink of water as if to steady himself before looking up at her fully. "Well if you had such strong objections," he began, his tone terse and accusatory, "why didn't you try and stop me?"

That was a loaded question and he knew it, judging by his tone of voice and the way he was now leaning forward onto the table. Irene had had a lot of time to think about this particular topic and she knew precisely why. There had been times when all she'd longed for was a chance to see him again and to tell him how stupid and prideful she'd been. It was part of what had driven her to follow him here in the first place. And yet even now Irene faltered, seeing the controlled anger in his expression and wondering if telling him would only make things worse now. So instead she said, "I thought I was respecting your wishes. That's what you were paying me for."

Unfortunately, that only made Sherlock more angry. His tone was low and cutting as he stared back at her and said, "And if I'd paid you to mind the door whilst I shot myself in the head, would you have done that, too?"

Irene's brows drew together involuntarily, softening her expression into one of deep regret. She knew the comparison wasn't actually all that exaggerated. But what was more, his deep anger made her suddenly realise a possibility she hadn't considered before. She'd thought his repeated trips to see her were only because he was attracted to her and wanted to be near her. Which was obviously true enough. But what if there were more to it? Drawing a steadying breath and surprised at how shaken she was all of a sudden, Irene asked tentatively, "Did you want me to stop you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "I only meant that it's massively hypocritical to protest my actions now since you stood by without a word when you were being paid to do so. Clearly the money mattered more to you than my addiction. I knew that. I went to you to experiment and use in relative safety, not because I wanted to be  _rescued_ ," Sherlock spat, perhaps a little too quickly and vehemently.

"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Irene said, trying hard to swallow the pain of his accusation that she'd only cared about the money. Sherlock focused deliberately on slicing up his food. From his denial, she already felt like he'd given his true answer. And it cut her to the core. Of course he did want to use in safety, and she was the only person he knew so he had little choice. But he'd already admitted last time that he kept coming back because he wanted to see her. And, she realised, because he wanted her to care for him. Enough that she might stop him. Because he seemed incapable of stopping himself. And she'd done nothing up until the point where he was literally going to die right there in her flat if he injected that speedball. That was comparatively little consolation when she might have stopped him altogether from the beginning, or several times after, before he'd gotten completely back into addiction. God, he had every right to think her cold and indifferent.

Irene swallowed hard, surprised to find her throat stinging and trembling. She wasn't one to show any emotion most of the time. If she had been, things would never have got this bad. And for once, she didn't hide the tremor in her voice. For once, she realised he needed to hear it. "Sherlock, I wanted to stop you." Her tone must have surprised him, because he stopped eating and looked at her warily. She continued, "I swear I did. Every time. I'm sorry."

"Then why didn't you?" he asked, dropping all pretence that he didn't know what she meant. Acknowledging subtly that at least part of him had hoped she would have helped him quit.

Irene smiled mirthlessly. "I didn't want you to think I was being sentimental. I know how much you detest that. And I'm guilty of that myself." Now he was holding her gaze, his expression full of trepidation. "You've always said sentiment was so dangerous-"

"It has been to me. It's been nothing but," Sherlock replied tightly.

Irene shook her head. "No, you're wrong. What's been worse for us both has been  _denying_  the sentiments that plainly exist between us. Really, isn't hiding it, trying to keep it a secret, something that's proved a weakness to us both? If we were truly devoid of sentiment, that would be one thing. But that's clearly not the case. We've both known that since London, but we've adamantly denied it. At least I have, out of a frankly idiotic sense of pride." She watched his face to see if he were letting that pride fall now, even just a little, but unfortunately his expression was set into a stolid mask. Irene would have to be the one to humble herself fully, then. "If we'd been upfront about it, if we were like ordinary people-"

Sherlock scoffed, cutting her off again. "Which I have no desire to be, I assure you. And I don't know why you should want to be, either. It would rob you of your best qualities."

"If at least in this  _one_  respect we were a  _bit_  more like ordinary people and didn't have such a ridiculous commitment to detachment," Irene pressed on, determined now not to let anything stop her. She'd taken the leap in her mind already. Now she only had to get the words out so there'd be no turning back. "We'd have saved ourselves a lot of trouble." She leaned forward, lowering her voice a bit and consciously encroaching on his space. He didn't lean away, just as she knew he wouldn't. His pride wouldn't allow it. "Because the first time you showed up at my flat asking if I could mind you while you shot up, I would have tossed the drugs out the window, tossed you on the bed, and shagged you senseless instead."

Sherlock remained admirably calm, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow angrily. "That's your solution to everything, is it?" he asked lowly. His eyes pierced hers accusingly. "This is what  _you_  like. What gets you off. Toying with people, seducing them, knowing you have that power. Which is all well and good. But I'm not giving you that power over me any more, Irene." Then, to her surprise, he pulled out his wallet and tossed down some money, just enough to cover his own half-eaten meal. He stood before she could say anything, probably knowing that now she'd have to raise her voice to speak to him. And she wouldn't want to cause a scene.

He was right about that. As Sherlock strode out the dining room door and onto the hotel's deck, Irene was left scrambling through her purse for some shekels. He might have been hoping she'd just leave well enough alone, but she hadn't dwelled on this for five months just to let him go that easily. Making sure to leave a bit of extra money, Irene collected her purse and walked across the lobby to the doors leading onto the deck.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Irene was outside, she realised why Sherlock had retreated out here instead of into his room. There were a handful of other people on the spacious deck, lounging in chairs, drinking wine, chatting. Which would make it much more difficult to make a scene or to pin him down. Clever, naturally. Sherlock had retreated to one corner, near a large bowl-like wicker couch. But rather than sit and lounge around, he was standing, leaning on the metal railing of the deck, glancing out at the moonlight on the water. The lines of his body looked tense, his posture carefully controlled. He was trying very hard to force himself into composure. When Irene approached, he glanced over at her briefly, then let out a small sigh as his eyes drifted back to the sea. Of course he'd known she would follow him. But he didn't seem at all eager to listen to her.

"I don't know how to convince you I wasn't toying with you last time," Irene said, leaning on the railing as well, but giving him a few feet of space lest she spook him again. "I told you then that I wasn't, but evidently you don't believe me capable of real feeling." His eyes slid over to hers, betraying the slightest amount of regret.  _Good,_ Irene thought. She almost never showed her own pain, but in this case, Sherlock deserved to know that he wasn't the only one who'd been hurt. That his implication that she was merely a manipulative bitch cut her to the core. When he glanced away in chagrin, Irene felt slightly vindicated. After letting this sink in for a moment, she turned her head towards him and lowered her voice. "And I hardly think I can be accused of seducing  _you_  in that instance. I seem to recall you propositioning  _me_  rather bluntly," she said pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock's cheeks coloured ever so slightly, and he refused to look at her. "Well, I was hardly in my right mind, was I," he muttered.

"No," Irene agreed. She hesitated, hoping that she could phrase this next bit well enough not to give him the wrong idea for once. "And perhaps I shouldn't have consented when you were in that state. I feel a bit like I took advantage of you, to be honest," she said, glancing down. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her, and looked up at him. "You hardly had the faculty to make a clear decision. And I might have known it would be difficult for you, or anyone, to perform under those conditions."

Sherlock closed his eyes, undoubtedly in embarrassment, and Irene immediately added, "And surely as a man of science you understand that. Still, I  _did_  consent. I would have slept with you then, and even if it would have been a bad decision, I dare say we both might have had a more enjoyable time of the last five months if I had." Sherlock opened his eyes and gave her a sidelong look of warning. Irene merely shrugged. "Well, it's what we both wanted, isn't it? And not only for physical gratification. It isn't like I'm incapable of finding that elsewhere. I have, here and there. You do know that I'm not normally attracted to men, don't you?"

"I'm aware," he said, facing out towards the water.

"Well, there. That should tell you something in and of itself about last time," she pointed out. Shifting so that her elbow was on the rail and her head was propped up on her fist, Irene gave him an even stare. "Really, Sherlock. Think about all of this logically," she said, making sure there was no air of seduction in her tone. That seemed to get his attention. At least he turned his head to look at her, which was progress. "I do toy with men as part of my job. But I'd hardly  _sleep_  with those men just to prove myself the victor. Give me some credit."

"Perhaps," Sherlock conceded uneasily, looking as if he were trying to mull the logic of it over in his mind. Then he sighed, closing his eyes a moment before asking, "What is all of this, then? Tracking me down this way? Inviting me to 'dinner'?"

Irene eyed him steadily. "A date," she said, simply and honestly.

_Finally_  Sherlock looked thrown and uncertain. As if for the first time that evening, he wasn't 100% convinced that she was manipulating him. Merely 98%. "A date?" he asked sceptically.

"Yes, I'm sure you've heard of them," Irene replied with a raised eyebrow. "Two people sitting down and talking about things. Hopefully having a good time."

"I've been on a date before," he snapped.

Part of her was a bit surprised and dying to know more. But Irene sensed that prying into his past would only make him more upset. He  _had_ alluded to some bad experiences with women at university, and then there was the business with the poor American girl he'd tried to chat up whilst high... Perhaps she ought to tease him a little less. More seriously, she said, "I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to apologise for my role in your…" Glancing around and seeing that no one was standing within earshot she continued, "addiction." The word made Sherlock shift his weight uncomfortably. "But I also simply wanted to see you again. To spend time with you."

"Why?" he asked, still guarded.

"Because I'm interested in you," Irene replied in frustration. How much more straightforward could she be with Sherlock? She didn't think she'd ever known such a genius or such an idiot; for them to both to exist as the same man was astounding. She wagered John must feel this frustration constantly.

Sherlock stared down at her evenly. "I should think you'd have learned quite enough about me to satisfy your interest by this point," he said. Then the hard look in his eyes receded, and Sherlock turned his head fully away from Irene as he added more quietly, "And much more than I wish you had."

Irene looked away from him, down at the metal railing she was leaning on. Her mind was honed to sense shame in all its forms, and she knew precisely what Sherlock meant. She really had seen the worst sides of him, dark recesses of his soul she wagered almost no one had seen. Perhaps his family or in some cases Lestrade, anyone who'd known him during the worst of his drug addiction before. But back then, he hadn't also been in hiding and spending most of his time hunting dangerous people. Irene shuddered to think of how skilled a killer Sherlock must have become to have bested Moran. Surely that was enough of a psychological burden on its own. Sherlock had a strong viscous streak, but before all of this he'd never actually killed anyone. At least, that's what Moriarty's files had said, and Irene tended to believe those.

But Irene knew that wasn't what bothered Sherlock the most. His dreadful business and agonising relapse into addiction were awful for Irene to witness and obviously had been for Sherlock to live through. But knowing him, the worst part had to have been Irene getting an intensely personal glimpse into his  _heart._  She was certain no other soul ever had. Not in this way. That kind of exposure would be difficult for anyone, let alone Sherlock. The cocaine had eliminated that barrier, at least. "I know you would never have let me see those sides of you had you been sober," Irene said.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, staring stonily back at the ocean, his features tight.

"But I  _did_ see all of that. Yet here I am. What does that tell you?" Irene challenged, gazing at him until he at least gave her a measuring glance. "And whatever my other failings might be as a friend and minder, at least I'm not easily shocked."

"No, I doubt you've ever been accused of that," Sherlock conceded, the slightest hint of humour in his voice.

Irene allowed time for the silence between them to become mostly comfortable. She could tell that appealing to his sense of logic was chipping away at the frightfully cruel picture he had built up of her. His feelings about himself were another matter. Irene feared being too direct, both for his sake and hers. But, her personal fears of intimacy aside, she'd rather help him to come to a conclusion on his own than force it upon him. And there were things she really  _didn't_  quite understand. "Can I ask you," she began after a period of silence. Sherlock sighed, seeming to prepare himself for another round as he turned and looked down at her whilst leaning on the rail. At least he didn't cut her off. "Why didn't you kiss me?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Before, when we were… together," she phrased it delicately, but he still winced. "You never kissed me. Well, not on the mouth at any rate," she added with a gentle suggestive smile. Irene definitely remembered the feel of his lips in other, more sensitive places, and she felt a slight shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night air.

Sherlock shifted his weight, looking marginally embarrassed but remaining aloof. "I didn't realise it was a requirement. Chalk it up to inexperience," he said dismissively.

Irene gave him a pointed look. "Don't play the fool, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you."

"Doesn't it?" he asked, seriously. "There's quite a lot of evidence to the contrary."

"No there isn't," Irene insisted. Now she locked her gaze onto his. "I will tell you for the last time, whether you respect me enough to believe me or not: I was never manipulating you. You weren't a fool to have feelings for me. And don't try to deny them now," she cut in, seeing him opening his mouth to object. "So why didn't you kiss me?"

Sherlock looked trapped. If he refused to answer the question, he probably knew it would only make her more curious. But she got the sense from his hesitation that his answer would be equally revealing. Finally, after thinking it over a moment, he said, "Well, obviously the drugs have a certain chemical affect on sexual hormones." Irene bit her lip to avoid making a comment he would no doubt classify as a base attempt at seduction. Instead, she merely nodded, and he continued, sounding a bit like his usual, scientific self, "And sex is one thing. But there's a special sort of intimacy associated with kissing. Perhaps it's only culturally specific, but it's still deeply ingrained. Many prostitutes don't kiss their clients. And people obviously kiss in many situations where there's no expectation that it will lead to intercourse." His accurate but dry explanation only added to Irene's suspicion that he'd probably never properly kissed anyone. It didn't mean he was wrong in his conclusions, but it was certainly indicative of his lack of personal experience.

Nevertheless, Sherlock continued, "I've found myself kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek on a few occasions, for instance, out of exuberance and even appreciation. Parents kiss their children, spouses kiss as a greeting or farewell, and the French kiss absolutely everyone," he grumbled in annoyance, and Irene couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock gave her a guarded look, then went on. "From what I've observed, it seems to be used as a means of communication in our culture. And it nearly always conveys a mutual affection between people."

Now Irene sobered. "And you didn't think that existed between us?"

Sherlock stared at her openly for the first time all night. Tightly he said, "You never kissed me, either."

Irene's normally proud and composed face fell, and she felt the weight of painful realisation settling on her like a tonne of lead. No, she hadn't kissed him, and she could have. She swallowed, uncomfortable now with having the light of inquiry shone on her. It was just a fraction of the pressure she'd been putting on Sherlock, but she was nearly as uncomfortable with such examinations as he was. Now she found herself mildly regretful that she'd asked him things like this. Because frankly she didn't know how to answer that. She hadn't even really thought about it. And now that she was considering it, Irene could only think of one honest reason for her hesitancy on this point. "I suppose," Irene began, looking Sherlock in the eye because she knew she owed him that much, "I was afraid of that sort of communication. Just as I suspect you were. Affection isn't something that comes naturally to either of us. But I never thought about you taking that as a rejection."

Sherlock pursed his lips a moment. "Well that, along with the way you refused my attempt to … bring you pleasure in an unselfish manner." He swallowed uncomfortably, then let out a small sigh. "Well, what was I supposed to conclude from that?"

Irene did her best to approach that topic sensitively. " _That_  was only because I wanted to show you that I  _wasn't_  using you merely for my own pleasure. I didn't want to enjoy myself while you were suffering so much. I wanted you to know we were in it together."

His eyes bored into hers as he asked quietly, "And what about now?"

"I've told you how I feel," Irene replied anxiously, feeling her flight instinct starting to kick in. She didn't know why she was so damned worried about letting Sherlock see what was in her heart. God knew she'd seen enough of his secret feelings, fears, and demons. It was only fair. But that didn't make such a revelation any less terrifying to her.

But Sherlock wasn't relenting. She could tell that he'd seized on an idea, set his focus on this now. And that intense, razor sharp clarity of mind was absolutely the most attractive thing about him. It had never ceased to set her heart racing. It certainly didn't disappoint now, as Irene felt her pulse beginning to pound faster, her breath becoming shallow. Sherlock leaned down just a little as he said, "You've danced around it. Used words like 'interested'. And frankly this is precisely the sort of thing that's made me doubt you in the past." He paused, taking a deep breath, seemingly for courage, and Irene could see just how difficult this was, just how desperately he wanted to believe her. Swallowing, Sherlock finally declared, "I want to know, in no uncertain terms, how you feel. However it may be."

"In no uncertain terms?" Irene asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his own voice faltering, his pupils dilated, his breathing shaky. He wasn't leaning in. He was genuinely remaining as stoic as he physically could, waiting for her answer. Wrapping up everything that had ever happened between them and setting it squarely in Irene's hands. But what could she possibly say? She had only one honest response.

Wrapping a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulling firmly but slowly, Irene drew his face down to hers, let her eyes flutter closed, and pressed her lips to his.

Sherlock froze, not seeming to know what to do. He was holding his breath, and for a second Irene worried he might push her away. Then he relaxed marginally, as if forcing himself to. Irene parted their lips a little as she kissed him slowly, deliberately, trying to pack in all of the things she'd been far too prideful to put into words. Sherlock remained passive, almost contemplative for a bit. Then, seeming to accept what she was communicating, he drew a deep breath through his nose, placed a hand at the small of her back, and drew her closer to him as he began kissing her slowly but ardently. It obviously wasn't skilled, but that hardly mattered. It was more about the message than the sensation. They went on like that for a long while, their hands around each other's backs and necks, but their lips pressing together more than their bodies.

Finally, Irene pulled away slowly and gently. Sherlock kept his face there, inches from hers, breathing deeply. He swallowed, his lips remaining slightly parted, his fascinated gaze never leaving her face. A smile tugged at Irene's lips. "Have I finally been clear enough with you, Sherlock?"

In answer, Sherlock's eyes flicked to the large, bowl-like wicker couch a few feet away. There were still a few people scattered about the deck, but the couch had a sun visor over it as well, providing a bit of privacy. Irene certainly didn't care about that, but wagered Sherlock probably did. Nodding in silent agreement, she took his hand and they sat down next to one another.

It was less than a second before he pressed his lips to hers, surprising her by almost immediately parting their mouths and slipping his tongue past.  _Perhaps we should have communicated like this all along,_ she thought wryly, happily reciprocating his action. In spite of his novice, Sherlock did at least seem to be better at this expression of feelings than at vocalising them. Miles better. While her hands wrapped around his shoulders, his had instinctively gone to her waist. As he deepened the kiss, he pulled her towards him, grasping at the waistband of her skirt for purchase like a drowning man grabbing for a life raft.

When the angle became a bit uncomfortable, Irene pulled away. But she gave Sherlock a grin to let him know she wasn't stopping altogether. Instead, she swept one leg over him and situated herself so that she was now straddling his lap, gazing down into his startled eyes. Sherlock swallowed hard, and this close she could see the pulse in his neck raging. She was sure it was obvious in hers, too. Running her hands slowly through his thick, wavy hair, Irene dragged his face up to hers, dipping her head and surprising him by forcefully pressing her tongue now into his mouth. Her legs tightened instinctively on either side of him, and he groaned, sliding his hands just under the edges of the bunched up skirt at her knees.

Irene chuckled softly into his mouth and let her hands slide down to his chest, nails grazing ever so softly through the fabric of his shirt. Then she raked them more strongly across his back, and he gripped her thighs tightly in response. Now she began subconsciously rocking against him in time with their increasingly forceful kisses. They settled into a dazed, hungry rhythm, and everything else in the world seemed to drift away, taking all the pain between them with it.

A loud coughing finally broke the spell, and it was Irene who pulled away, realising the sound was coming from someone standing near them. Sherlock seemed for once completely unaware of his surroundings. He opened his eyes, blinking slowly as if waking up. Turning to look at the source of the cough, Irene saw a young male hotel staff member standing an awkward distance away, but clearly trying to address them. When she looked at him, he shifted uncomfortably. "Apologies, miss… one of the guests complained…" he looked as if he'd rather be anywhere else right then. Irene decided to let the poor boy off the hook.

Chuckling as if embarrassed, she rolled off of a dazed Sherlock and sat beside him. "Goodness. I suppose we got a bit carried away, honey," she said, taking Sherlock's hand and giving him a coy smile. She pressed her free hand to her throat face. To the young man she said apologetically, "Honeymoon, you know…"

"Of course," he replied quickly, clearly afraid to put her off. "It's only-"

"Oh, we understand perfectly," she interrupted, putting on her sweetest smile. "We'll behave ourselves."

"Thank you," the staff member said with a nod, evidently satisfied enough that Irene was no longer on top of Sherlock. The boy hustled away, looking grateful to do so.

When she was sure the young man was out of earshot, Irene looked over at Sherlock. "Did I embarrass you?" she asked.

But Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring at her with the most longing expression she'd ever seen, and desire was her business. But this was more than simply sexual. She'd nearly call it worshipful. She became aware that Sherlock was still holding her hand when he squeezed it tightly and looked at her openly, almost vulnerably. He swallowed slowly and took a few shaky breaths before he said, in something between a question and a plea, "Come to my room."

For once in her prideful, complicated life, Irene didn't hesitate. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his firmly, taking him off guard with the brief but heartfelt gesture. Drawing her head back and locking her eyes on his she breathed thankfully, "Absolutely."

Neither of them needed to think twice before standing and heading deliberately back in the direction of Sherlock's room, their hands still tightly entwined.


	3. Chapter 3

The way Sherlock was holding her hand and kept glancing over at her as they made their way back to his room, Irene half expected him to go shy on her once inside. But the second he closed the door behind them, Sherlock used their intertwined fingers to stop her going any further. His free hand went up to cradle her neck and he began kissing her in earnest, but tenderly and even a bit tentatively. It was only a few seconds more before they'd both dropped the hand-holding. Her newly freed hand went to his shirt, pulling him towards her as she simultaneously untucked it. His went under her shirt and onto her back, and she revelled in the sensation of his long fingers splayed out on her warm skin. Irene was unused to being in an intimate scenario with a male body, all angles and hard planes. But Sherlock at least had the delicate touch of a musician or a surgeon. And the rest didn't seem half so strange because it was  _him_. He wasn't "a man"; he was Sherlock.

Sherlock broke the intense kiss just long enough to practically rip her tank top off. One hand returned to her back whilst the other ghosted over her ribcage, caressing the skin just below her bra, causing Irene to gasp quietly. Fortunately this arrangement left both of her hands free, and she gave Sherlock's shirt-front another tug as she began stepping backwards, urging him to walk with her as if following her lead in a dance. As they moved into the room, still kissing deeply and him still caressing her, Irene quickly undid the buttons of his shirt. A moment later, their progress into the room was jolted to a stop as Irene backed into the high office desk across from the bed. Their faces were pulled apart, and Sherlock looked to have been thrown out of the tender moment just a bit.

Tenderness was fantastic and all, but Irene felt they had established enough of an understanding of the feelings between them that a touch of good old fashioned seduction would no longer be misread. Smiling coyly, she moved them around to the other side of the desk, stood on her toes, and slid herself up onto the edge of the desk. She let her shoes drop slowly off her feet and let her toes dangle a few inches from the ground. Now she was closer to Sherlock's height, giving her perfect access to his neck. As she leaned in to kiss the sensitive flesh along the side of his neck, Irene lifted her right leg and trailed it sensuously up the back of his calf. Sherlock gave a soft moan. Encouraged, she slowly drew her leg up higher as she dragged her nails teasingly down his bare chest. She timed her hands reaching his belt with her leg hooking around his waist, and used both to pull him flush against her.

When his hips connected with hers, Sherlock gasped and put his hands down heavily on either side of her for support, his head falling alongside hers. Even through the layers of clothing, Irene could feel his arousal growing. Moving her lips to his ear, she whispered, "Not having the same problem as before, are we?" He shuddered and slid both his shaky hands up her back. As much as she loved seeing him overwhelmed, she didn't want him to overcorrect and get  _too_ eager just yet. So she loosened the grip of her leg and shifted back fractionally to put some space between them. She could still feel the heat radiating off him, but at least the friction would be reduced.

Sherlock lifted his head and finally looked at her again. His pupils were blown wide, but his expression somehow maintained most of its usual calm. He narrowed his eyes and let out a thoughtful "hmm" as he studied her as if she were a crime scene he was attempting to mentally catalogue, sweeping his eyes down over her. Irene felt a thrill run through her. One of the things she had always found most alluring about Sherlock was his intensity. She'd been dying to see how that might play out in the bedroom. And she was more than happy to give him the chance to let his curiosity lead them. But now there was an additional, deeper, more terrifying aspect to this interplay between them as well. Instead of worrying her, though, Irene found the thought of their mutual feelings only adding to the quickening of her pulse.

After a few moments study, Sherlock dipped his head to her left shoulder, took the strap of her bra in his teeth, and slowly dragged it off her shoulder. Then he went back to her exposed clavicle and sucked hard on the sensitive flesh there. Irene moaned as her skin broke out in goosebumps. Pulling his head back, Sherlock looked at her. "Hmm, interesting," he mused in a low, rumbling tone that he may or may not have realised was incredibly sexy. He could be annoyingly difficult to read. It was much easier when he physically couldn't help responding to her.

Irene ran the tips of her fingers lightly up the insides of his arms, well aware of how sensitive many people were in this area and wanting to make  _him_  shiver a bit this time. But the skin there was bumped and hardened, and Sherlock didn't respond to her touch. Irene felt her stomach sink as she realised all of the injection sites on his arms had desensitized them to such caresses. She had unconsciously stopped moving, and Sherlock drew back to look at her, mildly worried. "It's nothing," Irene said, forcing an alluring smile. He still seemed uncertain. Not missing a beat, she moved her hands over to the dangling edges of his shirt and tugged on them. "I was only thinking that we ought to get this off you."

Accepting that easily and eyeing her desirously, Sherlock straightened just long enough to rapidly throw his shirt off before he reached behind her back and undid her bra. Then he slid it off of her, tossed it aside, and drew their bare chests together. "Better?" he asked breathily.

Irene could feel the pounding of their hearts against each other. "Much," she agreed. In response, Sherlock leaned down and gave her a slow, languorous kiss, his whole head moving in small circles as he eased his tongue in and out of her mouth. Irene felt her body buzzing with pleasure. The man might be awful at interpreting social cues and voicing his feelings, but evidently this was one form of communication he felt comfortable with. At least with her. He didn't seem like much of a tactile person, but then Irene recalled that every time she  _had_  touched him in the couple years she'd known him, his response had been immediately noticeable. Perhaps he was a novice but a natural. Or perhaps this was something unique, existing only between Sherlock and Irene.

A small, contented sigh left Irene's lips when she and Sherlock naturally parted. Now that longing, worshipful look was back in his eyes. It made her stomach flip in a way Irene would have previously labelled as embarrassingly juvenile. But hadn't she just been the one telling him that trying to repress sentiment hadn't done them any good? She'd dreamt about this scenario, and not just for the physical pleasure of it. Now that they were here, their shallow, quick breaths mingling together, it was just starting to occur to Irene how real this was. That this was finally, actually happening. In spite of herself, she leaned forward and gave Sherlock a gentle kiss on the cheek. He looked at her in wonderment for a few long moments, his hands idly caressing the edge of her skirt, then swallowed.

"Lie back a bit," he commanded gently, and Irene obeyed, leaning back on her hands, though the shallowness of the desk and proximity of the wall prevented her from going very far. But it didn't seem to be in the way of Sherlock's plan. He'd taken on a slight air of curiosity again as he slowly slid his hands under Irene's skirt, his fingertips moving up her strong legs. When his fingers hooked onto either side of her knickers, his eyes met hers in question. In answer, Irene lifted her hips long enough for him to slide the lacy undergarments out from under her. Then she straightened both legs out as Sherlock stepped back and slowly eased the garment off, tossing it aside gently. His eyes stayed locked on hers as he eased himself between her legs, which she instinctively wrapped around his waist as he drew near again.

Irene realised her mouth had gone dry, and could feel her pulse pounding below. Then, with a slow pace that could only have been deliberately teasing, Sherlock placed his left hand on the small of her back and eased his right hand up the length of her thigh. Irene realised the wisdom in his supporting her back and had just enough presence of mind to push her arms off the desk and wrap them around his neck just before his hand made contact with her most sensitive flesh.

" _Oh_!" Irene exclaimed, inhaling sharply, very glad for her grip on him as she tensed involuntarily. Her nails dug into the skin just in back of his neck. Sherlock looked a combination of curious and satisfied as he began to slowly caress her, moving those delicate musician's fingers around in a circular motion. Irene bit her lip and let out a long moan, closing her eyes as her breathing sped up and her vision blurred a little.

"Where?" Sherlock whispered, leaning his forehead against hers.

As aroused as she had quickly become, Irene still had a remarkable talent for keeping her head. And fortunately this was a part of her body she knew very well. "Left," she breathed, and Sherlock's fingers followed the command obediently. He had a look of supreme concentration on his face that was so alluring Irene thought she might come undone already. But not quite, so she continued, "And down a little,  _oh, there, there._ " The last words came out almost as a pant, and Irene's abdominal muscles contracted at the touch. Her eyes flew shut and her head turned to the side of its own will. Her pulse was going wild and her breathing was erratic. Sherlock stroked the spot slowly, and Irene clenched her jaw in the rapt anticipation of the motions becoming more intense.

So when Sherlock's hand suddenly drew away entirely, Irene's eyes flew open in shock. She dug her nails angrily into Sherlock's back and snapped in a low voice, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock gave her a calm, genuinely confused look. "I needed to make some observations," he explained plainly.

Irene glowered at him in disbelief.  _All right, clearly still massively ignorant in some areas,_ she thought. Still, a part of her thought he might be a bit more aware than he was letting on. Either way, Sherlock was clearly becoming too cerebral about all of this. Fortunately, there was one sure-fire way to remove the blood from any man's brain. Irene's expert skills kicked in as she reached down, unbuckled his belt, practically ripped it from the loops, undid the button of his trousers, shot her hand down under his pants and grabbed hold of him firmly.

To Irene's immense satisfaction, Sherlock didn't seem to have seen that coming one bit, and in fact let out the most delicious throaty groan of surprise as he had to grip the edges of the desk to keep himself upright. He had already been half hard, but that was quickly changing. "Hmm, I believe I could make some interesting observations of my own," Irene mused casually as she began stroking him.

"Oh God," Sherlock managed to breathe out. His body was shaking, his forehead breaking out in a sweat, and his skin was flushing in a positively delicious manner. He groaned, a guttural sound that made Irene's own body thrum with excitement.

"You know, Mr. Holmes," Irene hummed playfully, even as her own breathing remained ragged. "I think I feel an elevated pulse."

"I… oh God I… Irene," Sherlock stammered. Hearing her name on his lips made her smile knowingly. But it was suddenly erased when Sherlock's right hand snapped over from its place on the desk to grab her wrist and pull her hand up out of his trousers. Irene was about to comment when he added, shakily, "I don't think that's a good idea." He swallowed, visibly warring with his own blood and hormones. Dropping her wrist, he took a few deep breaths, then gave Irene a pointed look. "What I mean to say is, I'd like to avoid having the precise opposite problem as last time."

_Oh, right_. Somehow in the haze brought on by the deadly combination of lust and sentiment, Irene had more or less forgotten that Sherlock hadn't done this before. And not that he was an out of control teenager or anything, but it was a fair point that his staying power might not be terribly great just yet. Irene was sharply reminded of all the humiliation she'd already put him through. So instead of berating him further, she moved her hand up to the back of his neck. "Then we ought to get down to business, oughtn't we?" she said with a smile.

Sherlock kissed her briefly before pulling back, a look of concern suddenly passing over his features, even as he kept breathing hard. "Ah," he started uncertainly, "Only I've realised… do we need a condom?"

It was such a practical question in the midst of this dreamlike state that it threw Irene for a moment. Because evidently he hadn't thought of that, and neither had she. Looking up at him and shaking her head, she said, "I don't have one. I don't have sex with men normally… I don't suppose you have any?"

"I don't have sex with anyone," Sherlock pointed out.

"Right," Irene replied, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. Both of them had slid their hands to the other's waist, and now she couldn't help but feel they were in the awkward posture of nervous teenagers at a dance. Attempting to think clearly in spite of her thudding heart and pleasure-addled mind, Irene said, "But I can't see why we need one. I use birth control to help my cycle, and you may be surprised to hear I've never had any sort of STD."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not in the least," he assured her. "You may work in a sex trade, but that hardly means you're careless. I assumed quite the opposite."

"And," Irene pointed out matter-of-factly, "obviously you've not been exposed to anything." Sherlock nodded, but even as he did, Irene was hit with a realisation that caused her face to fall slightly. Which naturally was enough for Sherlock to notice.

"What is it?" he inquired curiously.

Irene drew a deep breath, knowing she needed to ask this but wishing very much for his sake that she didn't. "And there's no chance you've been exposed to any of the blood-borne ones?"

Sherlock looked at her for a few seconds, then glanced down at his track-marked arms in realisation. "Oh," he said, voice still shaky with adrenaline. He looked back up at Irene. "The potential dangers of having sex with an IV drug user," he noted, swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry, perhaps I shouldn't have brought it up," Irene said.

"No, it's perfectly logical. It's your health, after all. The sort of thing the NHS is always trying to make people aware of," Sherlock said, his tone calm and objective in spite of the state of arousal he was in and the very personal nature of this topic. Shifting, he said, "I've never been tested for anything. But I never reuse needles and certainly don't  _share_  with anyone…" his lips twisted in disgust.

Irene knew all of this. She'd seen how characteristically fastidious he was about his syringe usage. Still, she had only seen him use this past year. He'd been using since he was at university. Carefully, she asked, "Ever?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not ever. I've never been a social user in the least," he asserted. After a moment's hesitation, he drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if trying very hard to bring himself under his own control again. "The last thing I would want is for you to feel contaminated..." he stammered the word in a quiet, embarrassed way that made Irene feel awful on his behalf. Opening his eyes he said in a business-like manner, "So yes, of course I'll go buy some. Only give me a few moments to settle down."

The last thing she wanted was to give him time to calm down, to let him escape or second guess the important breakthrough they'd finally had together. He started to pull away, but Irene instinctively caught his wrist and shook her head. "No, it's fine," she said.

Sherlock gave her a questioning look. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking like he was quite serious rather than asking a rhetorical question.

Irene pulled him back towards her. "I trust you," she said, and genuinely meant it.

Sherlock considered her carefully for a few moments. Then he clasped his hands to either side of Irene's face and leaned in to kiss her insistently. Yes, this was certainly easier for both of them than trying to  _talk_. And oh, this was much nicer all around.

Even that sobering break hadn't calmed Irene's heart and hormones, nor Sherlock's if the front of his half undone trousers now pressed against her knees was any indication. When he finally pulled out of the hungry kiss, Sherlock took a moment to step out of his shoes. Then, without being asked, Irene lifted her hips and let Sherlock slide her skirt off. She was more than glad to be rid of the last of her clothing now. But Sherlock was still entirely too clothed. Irene ran her fingers over his lower abdomen, and was rewarded with his hitched breath and tensing muscles. She looked him steadily in the eyes as she slowly unzipped his trousers then yanked them and his boxers down off his hips. He stepped out of them rapidly. Swallowing, his darkened eyes taking in the image of her perched totally nude on the desk before him, Sherlock looked just about ready to pounce. Or rather, no longer able to keep himself from pouncing. It made her heart hammer and she felt beads of sweat trickling down her back. All she had to do was draw him closer now...

But Irene had seen how Sherlock had fared standing up with just some stimulation. And she'd seen how he was always unable to stand when experiencing the rush of cocaine. Though she hated to draw that parallel now, biologically it seemed indicative that he shouldn't attempt this whilst standing. Not that she would tell Sherlock this part, lest she offend his male pride. Ghosting her hands over the sinewy, bruised muscles of his chest, Irene said lowly, "As much as I'd love to have you right here on this desk, I think we'd both be more comfortable on the bed."

Sherlock didn't need any convincing. To Irene's surprise, he promptly picked her up, turned around, and nearly tossed her onto her back halfway up the bed. As he rapidly crawled on top of her, there was a feral look darkening his eyes. Clearly he was beginning to lose control, and that was just what Irene had hoped for, just what she thought he needed. Complete abandonment. Her, him, and none of the rest. As soon as his face was near hers, she reached up and pulled his lips down savagely against hers. He gave a moan of surprise but didn't seem to mind in the least judging by the way he reciprocated. His sweat-slickened body rubbed against her with every kiss, and Irene felt like her skin was igniting from the friction and pleasant weight on top of her.

As they kissed and bit at each other's lips, she could feel him hard against her lower abdomen, and was surprised at the chill the sensation sent through her. She supposed sexual preference was indeed a fluid thing. When Sherlock finally pulled back, and Irene was able to gasp for breath, she found herself immediately missing the warmth of his chest against hers. Fortunately, Sherlock didn't seem keen to take much of a break for something so prosaic as breathing. He lowered his head to her neck and kissed the spots that had made her gasp before, with the same result. It occurred to Irene, in the back of her mind, that this deliberate sort of action was quite different from the frantic rush and clawing that had occurred the last time they were in bed together. Part of her was glad that hadn't worked out, in a way. A sober Sherlock was better for both of them: sharp, intense, and able to take in every sensation with relish.  _Much better than losing your virginity in a drugged haze,_  Irene concluded.

Sherlock wasn't content to stay at her neck, and quickly kissed a trail down to her breasts. The gentle sensation caused the fine hairs on Irene's arms to stand up. By the time he got to her nipple, it was hardened and sensitive. She gasped at the feel of his lips and tongue there, as his free right hand groped at her other breast. There was something in Sherlock's combination of deliberate intuition and lack of control that Irene found maddeningly arousing. She found herself squirming beneath him and digging her fingernails into the muscles of his shoulders, avoiding the bandaged area. Sherlock experimentally licked then ran his tongue from her breasts down to her navel, provoking a shiver from Irene. In a way, the fact that he wasn't practiced at this made it even better. Because he seemed utterly fascinated by her reactions rather than narrowly focused on getting down to business.

Still, between her own waves of light-headedness and wordless exclamations, Irene could hear the longing panting coming from Sherlock. And she could feel him trembling with the strain of resisting his own arousal. Swallowing to compose herself a little, she grabbed Sherlock by his sides and dragged him back up towards her face. Nibbling on his earlobe, she whispered, "How are you holding up?"

The way he tensed up just at this sensation was all the reply she needed, really. But when he pulled back enough to look at her, the dark look in his eyes and the way his mouth was slightly parted, hair growing damp with sweat, told her even more. Not to mention the rumbling, raspy quality of his voice as he ventured, "I think I'm all right."

Irene raised an eyebrow. "You don't look it," she said, surprised at how breathless her own voice sounded. In an honest assessment, he evidently wasn't the only one aching to get on with things. In spite of her recent unfamiliarity with having sex with men, Irene found herself well ready to do so with Sherlock. Perhaps the uniqueness was part of what made it unusually thrilling. And there were those serious, deeper possible causes as well, the ones she still wasn't entirely used to.

"Go on," she said, giving him a hungrily suggestive look and wrapping her legs around his low back, pulling him close as she ran a toe down his spine. Sherlock trembled, his eyes screwing tightly shut for a moment. When he opened them, he gave her a questioning, almost pleading look. Instead of voicing her desire, Irene slid a hand all the way down his sweat-slicked chest and helped slowly guide him in.

His breathing stopped for a moment, and he stared down at her in open admiration tinged with a slight amount of fear. Then, most likely being hit with a massive adrenaline and testosterone rush from the new sensation, Sherlock practically growled and grabbed her wrists, drawing her arms up above her head on the mattress, and began rolling his hips. After a few slow thrusts he released her wrists, instead grasping at her waist as he leaned down and bit at her neck hungrily. She gasped, and he muttered what might have been an expletive. Mostly he was groaning and gasping incoherently against her skin as he thrust steadily. This physical contact wasn't quite the arousing trigger that Irene was used to, but seeing Sherlock unravelling certainly sent a shudder of pleasure through her.

As if reading her mind, Sherlock slowed momentarily, pushing himself up on his left elbow and looking at her from inches away. It seemed to take great effort, judging by the way he bit his lip and breathed heavily through his nose, but he seemed determined to pause a moment for something. Then he raked the fingers of his right hand from her neck all the way down her torso and to the point where they were joined. Irene's eyes widened and her throat constricted as his delicate fingers found the exact spot she'd directed him to earlier. " _Yes_ ," she breathed, biting her lip as he began swirling his fingers around. Irene's muscles contracted sharply, causing him to moan and, it appeared, nearly lose control.

Instead, he showed admirable fortitude for a novice, and resumed the motion of his hips even as he stroked her with his hand. The concentration had caused his eyes to fall shut, and his lips were moving wordlessly. Some soft noises that sounded a bit like English fell from his mouth as he intensified both motions. For her part, Irene rolled her hips and flexed her inner muscles in time with his increasing pace, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the deliciously undone expression on his face. She'd longed to see him made this vulnerable and uncontrolled by something other than the vile drugs. Now she couldn't take her eyes off the sight.

That is, until his fingers brushed a particularly sensitive spot and she gasped, throwing her head back. The rush of blood warming her below and the fiery sensation in her nerve endings caused her to again contract involuntarily around Sherlock, harder this time. " _Fuck_ ," he rasped, his hand shaking against her.

Irene could feel herself climbing rapidly towards her peak. Looking at him again, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled herself up to him. "Harder," she growled in his ear, and he responded with both a strangled sound and her requested increase in both his motions.

"Oh God, Sherlock," she half-gasped, half-moaned. Every nerve felt raw, the world was turning to bright spots, and Irene knew she was only a few seconds away. He didn't seem capable of any words, only incoherent sounds that were growing louder. He pounded into her as his fingers rubbed the sensitive spot once more, twice more, then Irene let out a loud cry as her world went white and her muscles clenched and quivered.

Evidently Sherlock had been barely holding himself at bay, because the sensation was enough to send him over the edge, too. All of his muscles stiffened and he made the loudest sound Irene had ever heard from the composed detective. She had just enough presence of mind left to latch her mouth to his and stifle his shout with a kiss. He seemed incapable of any thought or movement, but Irene felt an overwhelming need to have as much contact with him as possible as they rode out the rest of their respective orgasms.

Finally, Sherlock collapsed on top of Irene just as her own muscles went limp and heavy. It seemed to take every drop of energy he had remaining to slide out of her and roll off to her left side. Irene drew a few deep breaths before rolling to her side and propping herself up on her left elbow. She draped a leg over Sherlock's nearest one, unconsciously rubbing her foot up and down his shin. Sherlock wasn't in a state to notice much. He was breathing like a man who'd just finished an Olympic sprint, his pulse beating visibly in his neck. What areas of his chest that weren't dark with bruises were flushed red with pleasure. Irene brushed the damp hair away from her own face and gently set her right hand on his far hip, feeling an urge to maintain as much contact with him as possible. "Do you feel different?" she asked breathlessly, giving him a coy smile.

Sherlock was still staring at the ceiling, blinking as if focused sight hadn't quite returned for him yet. "Diff…different?" he asked, needing to catch his breath every second or so and not able to speak very well. Of course, that didn't stop him trying. "No, in … principle virginity is… it's merely a… social construct." He wiped the sweat from his brow with one abnormally shaky hand. "In terms of… physiology," he said, breathing a little slower now and actually turning his eyes towards her. "There's no real scientific distinction at all."

Irene had to bite her lip to keep from smiling or laughing, though her eyes lit up all the same. She was simply amazed at how Sherlock seemed capable of fitting everything into a logical viewpoint. It was so bizarrely alluring that she would have shagged him again right then if she could. As it was, she was spent both physically and emotionally, and Sherlock had to be on the verge of passing out by the looks of things. "Fair enough. But," Irene said, giving him a significant look, "how did it feel in the more traditional sense?"

"It felt wonderful," he acknowledged. "Almost like…" whatever he was about to say died immediately on his lips, and a small shadow passed over his features. But he looked to the ceiling a moment and whatever he had been thinking seemed to be quickly washed away in the tide of pleasurable hormones rushing through his body. "Yes. Wonderful. Indescribable." He looked back over at her lazily. "I hope it was all right for you."

"Oh, you did amazingly," Irene replied honestly. In fact, the unfamiliar sensation a man was able to bring about combined with the more usual stimulation externally had been remarkably pleasurable. Though she would almost say that, curiously, the most captivating part of the whole thing had been Sherlock. Just… Sherlock. She swallowed, fidgeting a little at the uncomfortable mental sensation the reflection brought on. It was almost as if her body were feeding her extra doses of contentment in addition to what was usual. Frankly, she was starting to feel a bit ridiculous, and got back to the sort of thing she was more comfortable with. "That was quite a trick you employed," she drawled, smiling and raising an eyebrow at him in question.

"Oh, that," he said with a tired shrug. At some point, his right hand had snaked under her arm and had started to draw circles between her shoulder blades in an unconscious imitation of his hand's earlier motion. "I was fairly certain that without a built up tolerance, in addition to my overall fatigue, I might not be able to last terribly long." Actually, he'd made it a bit farther than she might have guessed due to his extraordinary willpower, but generally speaking he was right about not having practiced endurance. Sherlock continued musing, "And I'm aware that many women require additional stimulation anyway. So I wanted to make sure you enjoyed yourself. Hence my earlier experimentation to ensure I was on the right path."

"Sounds like you've thought that through pretty thoroughly in advance." Irene leered at him knowingly, and he looked a bit frightened at her expression. "Sherlock Holmes," she said with a soft chuckle, "have you been  _fantasising_  about me?"

His brow furrowed and he countered indignantly, "Hypothesising."

Now Irene laughed loudly, then gave him a faux serious look and a nod. "Naturally," she agreed. Then she added, genuinely, "Well it was thoughtful of you."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Not this time," she replied with a soft smile. "Sincerely, that seemed to take a good deal of concentration and effort, and all for someone else's sake." In fact, she'd have thought Sherlock – always the supreme pragmatist and a bit prone to narcissism – wouldn't ordinarily be someone to be that thoughtful and giving. He  _had_  faked his own death and put himself through hell, but that was only for some remarkably special people in his life.

_And what do you think you are?_ As soon as she thought that, Irene felt herself freezing. She wasn't certain where that had come from, but what was more worrying was that she couldn't convincingly disagree. But the thought that she might be in the same category as the only three friends Sherlock seemed to have ever had was mildly terrifying. But then, she was now his only lover, and probably deserving of a special place of her own in his mind and heart. She smiled and added easily, "All I mean is that most men don't give their partners' pleasure a second thought."

"Am I most men?" he challenged, seeming offended at the thought of being ordinary.

"No," Irene said, leaning in and kissing him gently on the lips. "That's the last thing you'll ever need to worry about being." His expression shifted as he stared up at her, and she could imagine him considering her words, her tone, her posture, her pulse. She was sure none of it escaped his notice. Feeling both skittish and tired, Irene tucked her left arm beneath her and lowered her head into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. Her right hand settled naturally against his chest. The night air was cool, but their bodies were still warm, and warmer yet beside one another.

Neither of them said anything else, and in a few minutes they were both sleeping peacefully.


	4. Chapter 4

When Irene awakened, she blinked slowly in confusion. It was still night, and by all rights she shouldn't be up yet. After all, she'd fallen asleep pleasantly exhausted. But it only took her a few minutes of wakefulness to realise what had pulled her out of her peaceful sleep.

The light in the bizarrely glass-walled bathroom was on, making her feel like she was watching a fishtank. Inside the little room, Sherlock was partially obscured behind the tub, crouched on the tile floor and retching into the toilet. As Irene's eyes focused better, she could see his bony arms grasping the top of the tank, his knuckles white with tension. She was aware that cocaine withdrawal was more devastatingly psychological than physical, but her research also showed that some people were made physically ill by it as well. Evidently Sherlock was one of those lucky few. And he'd only been off the stuff for perhaps 12 hours.

Her instinct was to go comfort him, and that worried her. She was no nurse, and really as far from gentle and supportive as one could be. But just the fact that she  _wanted_  to ease Sherlock's physical and psychological pain gave her pause. From the dark of the bed, Irene watched achingly as Sherlock slowly flushed the toilet and pulled himself to his feet. He'd slipped his boxers back on but was still shivering a little against the cool night air and the sweat covering his body. Slowly, as if it took all of his strength, he stood before the sink and ran some water over his face. He spat, then grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste absently brushed his teeth for several minutes. Finally, Sherlock set the toothbrush aside, leaned on the edge of the sink, and looked up at himself in the mirror.

Irene could see a whole host of anxieties, pains, and shameful regrets pass over Sherlock's face. The now livid bruises on his chest and the dressings covering gashes here and there reminded her that, in addition to everything that had happened between them and tossing out the last of his cocaine, Sherlock had killed a man yesterday. A very dangerous man. And now the great detective stood there looking wretched, thin, battered, sickly, and lost. This was a far cry from Irene's long nurtured fantasies of Sherlock Holmes.

And she'd never wanted him more.

Not just for sex, though that was certainly part of it. But she wanted  _him:_  his mind, his body, and his heart all at once. This was dangerously close to the notion of 'making love' to someone. Irene's heart sped up at the realisation, though whether in panic or excitement she didn't know. She could only do her best to keep her breathing deep and shallow so as not to give herself away.

Sherlock looked just barely capable of making the journey back to bed right now. He flicked off the bathroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Even so, Irene closed her eyes, worried that he'd see she was awake and knowing how mortified he'd be at her seeing him like this now. She didn't know what she would say to him anyway. So instead she lay there, anticipating him flopping down heavily beside her. She could hear his feet plodding back heavily in her direction.

So she was surprised when she felt a soft blanket, one of the extras from the room's closet, being draped over her body. They'd fallen asleep on top of the covers, quite warm enough at the time not to need a blanket. But now the cool night air of the Mediterranean had made things a bit chilly. And the blanket was comforting for more than just protection against the weather.

The bed dipped as Sherlock lay back down beside Irene, inches away in the direction she was facing but couldn't open her eyes to look at. But she could hear his uneven breathing, could feel him laying the other half of the blanket on top of himself. And when she let out a contented sigh like someone might when they were asleep, shifted closer to him, and threw her hand onto his sweat-slicked chest as if absently grasping at something in her dreams, Irene could feel his pulse pounding in time with hers.

* * *

The next time Irene awoke was much more pleasant. Her right arm and leg were still draped over Sherlock, but in the night he'd rolled a little in her direction. His left arm was snaked lazily around her back. Though his body was slick with cold sweat, he at least seemed to have been able to fall asleep soundly at some point. The west-facing room meant it was late morning, half past ten, when she finally stirred. Irene blinked at the clock to make sure that was right. Blimey, she'd slept nearly 11 hours. Normally she wasn't much for sleeping the day away. But as she gazed at Sherlock's resting features, Irene decided it would be all right to make an exception this once. She let her eyes fall shut and scooted a bit closer to him.

It was twenty more minutes before Sherlock began to stir. Irene opened her eyes and, to the horror of a certain part of her, watched Sherlock quietly as he sighed, swallowed, and blinked his eyes open. For a few moments, he looked downright shocked to see Irene staring back at him. The arm he had draped around her drew back, as if he were uncertain it belonged where it was. Fearing a full on morning after panic, Irene tightened her grip on his side, pulled herself closer to him, and gave him a firm kiss. After a moment, he kissed her back for a second, seeming to get the message. His body relaxed, and when he opened his eyes again, Sherlock looked less like a deer in the headlights. Still, he seemed weary, his skin slightly sallow. Irene hadn't forgotten what she's seen in the middle of the night, but part of her had hoped it had only been a bad dream. She was sure Sherlock wished many things that had happened when he visited her were only dreams. Sherlock gazed at her a moment with a passive expression on his face but an increasingly uneasy look in his grey-green eyes.

Letting out a long sigh, Sherlock rolled onto his back and ran a hand across his forehead. He grimaced, no doubt at the grimy sweat there, and wiped his hand on the sheets. Irene realised the sheets around Sherlock weren't going to be much use in drying his hand since they were wet with his cold perspiration. He seemed to realise this at the same moment she did, and rapidly sat up, scooting a foot away from her. Irene frowned as she too sat. "Dammit," he muttered, drawing a few long breaths. Then, glancing over at Irene, he said apologetically, "I've made this a rather unsuitable place for sleeping."

"Really? Because I slept the best I have in months. Perhaps years," Irene said, keeping her tone light but very much meaning what she said.

Sherlock still seemed focused on the damp sheets. "I didn't realise I was sweating so much." There was a beat, as if he were searching for the right thing to say. Finally he settled for a flat, "I'm sorry."

"I think we were both sweating quite a bit, actually," Irene said with a sly smile.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not from that," he replied, screwing his eyes shut in frustration.

No, Irene knew precisely what it was from. She'd simply hoped they might be able to have a normal, peaceful lie-in. But she might have known that was impossible. Especially after the way she'd seen him in the middle of the night. Irene's expression and tone shifted to hesitant sobriety. "Withdrawal?" His eyes darted to hers for a second, worried. As if she hadn't already seen him in every possible horrible state the cocaine could put him in. Sherlock looked away and nodded. Knowing him, if he were willing to admit any symptoms at all, the reality must be far worse. She thought back to what she'd both read and seen of the mental withdrawal he must be going through. Anxiety and deep depression were common, not to mention irritability. She'd certainly seen enough glimpses of that when he'd been between hits to approach him with caution now. Irene shifted on the bed so that she was leaning on the headboard and facing Sherlock. "I'm sorry," she said delicately.

"I'll get over it eventually," Sherlock said, determination edging into his voice.

She desperately hoped he would. After all, he'd got clean before. And that was without John's support, which he was sure to have this time. Still, the sight of him now drove the point home that Sherlock had a very long way to go. Still, she was determined to focus on the present. "I know you will. But 'eventually' doesn't help much now, does it?" Irene lightly raised an eyebrow at him and laid her right hand lightly on his knee. "I can think of quite a few ways to distract you and make you feel  _much_  better," she said, giving him a mischievous look that would have brought many men to their knees.

"What, substitute one drug for another?" he replied quietly.

Irene's hand slid off his leg, almost of its own volition. She felt a bit like she'd been slapped. She might have been angry at someone else saying that, might have found a way to lash out in a painfully targeted manner. But she knew Sherlock, and knew he didn't mean it as an insult to her. It said more about his own state of mind. So instead, after she collected herself, she mostly just felt sympathy tinged with uncertainty. "Is that what sleeping with me was to you? A drug?" she asked.

"If you mean was I 'using' you, then no," Sherlock replied, then looked away. "But physically, it certainly felt similar," he said. He sounded downright miserable as he added, "Though I'm not sure it was quite as intense as the cocaine."

Irene looked down a moment. "I can see how it might seem that way, from a purely biological point of view. They do both trigger a lot of the same chemicals in the brain," she reasoned, looking back at him. He kept his gaze on the blanket still draped partway over them. "It's an awful association for you to deal with. Still, you seemed to very much enjoy yourself last night. And without relying on something that you know could kill you. Doesn't that count for something?" What was more, there had been moments of genuine vulnerability and sentiment even. But she didn't want to bring that up just now, for fear of spooking him.

"I did and it does," Sherlock acknowledged. "But it doesn't change the fact that it feels a bit like trading one intoxicating lure for another." Now he finally turned and faced her. "I've spent nearly all of my adult life with one continuous, steady relationship. And that's with the cocaine. I don't know anything else."

Irene swallowed, taking that in. "So this is a dalliance then. I'm your mistress, but at the end of the day you'll go back to your wife. That's what you're worried about?"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "I wouldn't have put it that way, but along those lines, yes."

"But you're wrong, Sherlock. I know it's the absolute worst thing someone could say to you about anything, but in this case I happen to be the expert, not you," Irene said firmly. Sherlock didn't even bother trying to argue that, which made Irene much more worried for his current state than night sweats did. Still, she pressed on. "Your brain reacts the same way to any number of pleasures. Hormones can be misleading. But _this_ ," she motioned between them, "this thing with us, that's not a drug. Nor is it an illusion. It would never have sustained itself for so long and through so many awful things if it were." Irene put her hand back on Sherlock's knee and drew a little closer to him, looking him in the eye as she said softly, "And one other difference: if cocaine is your lover, it's an abusive, controlling, utterly selfish one. It will never love you back."

Silence fell over the room as Sherlock froze and Irene's own eyes widened for a split-second, realising what she'd said. She hadn't meant to say that last part. The whole slew of implications from that statement ran through Irene's head as Sherlock's intense eyes flicked back and forth across Irene's face, trying desperately to read the panicked expression there. He was suddenly tense and anxious and very much alert, pulled out of his cocaine crash lethargy for a moment. And why shouldn't he be? She'd practically just told him that she loved him. God, just  _thinking_ that word was terrifying enough. Irene definitely hadn't been planning on using it out loud. Fortunately Sherlock was starting to look as panicked about it as she was. Warning bells were going off in her carefully walled off and secured mind.

Some still functioning part of her brain caused her to pull away from him, getting out of bed. It also kept her tone remarkably casual as she strode across the room and into the restroom. "In any case, I think the best thing for you mentally, physically, and hygienically at the moment would be to set all of this aside and have a nice bath," she said over her shoulder.

As Irene put on a dressing gown hanging on the towel rack, she watched Sherlock's reaction through the glass walls. It took him a moment to process what she'd said. When he had, he scowled deeply. "A  _bath?_ Why?" he asked, as if she'd suggested doing something truly awful like filing tax forms or having children.

Irene walked casually back into the bedroom, moving immediately over to the large soaker tub. It gave her something to do and a convenient excuse to avoid looking at Sherlock. She was fairly certain now that she was more anxious about what she'd said than he was. She was trying to keep herself occupied, while still venturing quick glances over at Sherlock. Irene plugged the tub and turned on the warm water before replying, "For one thing, you may have cleaned up a bit between the Dead Sea and Tel Aviv, but I'll wager it's been a while since you've had a really proper, long soak." She opened the Dead Sea bath salts left out with the other hotel toiletries and began emptying them into the rising water.

Sherlock fidgeted slightly on the bed. "Oh… If you'd said something I'd have showered again last night before, well…" he looked sheepish, which was something Irene didn't think she'd ever seen from him before. It made her want to jump him. But then,  _everything_  he did now seemed to have that affect on her.  _Dammit_.

Irene shot him a quick smile to allay his concern as she finished emptying the bath salts into the tub. She had settled down a bit, though she still felt uncomfortable. "It's fine. I'd hardly have wanted to stop for that last night. And you couldn't have known in advance that you'd be hounded by some woman wanting to have sex with you when you got in."

"Not exactly high on my contingency planning list, no," Sherlock conceded. "But I could just take a shower…"

"Why are you in such a rush? Your flight's not until evening. No one's trying to kill you anymore. And you'll be heading back to London and your old life soon," Irene said confidently, even though she had many reservations about that. It still didn't diminish the amazing accomplishment of coming out of this thing alive at all. "If anything deserves a nice, relaxing bath, I'd say this is it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that. "I don't like  _relaxing_ ," he grumbled.

"There's a first time for everything, as I think we've proved," Irene said, turning off the water on the now full tub, then heading back to the bed and offering him her hand. "Here, I realise you're probably feeling weak and lethargic. Let me help you up," she offered. Although she'd begun down this path merely as a diversion, looking down at Sherlock's sickly and battered body, Irene softened considerably, realising his muscles actually  _could_  use some help. Sherlock looked at her for a long moment before swinging his legs off the bed, taking her hand, and pulling himself up to his feet.

Now they were standing face to face, with Sherlock gazing down at her quietly. It was ridiculous and nearly unprecedented for Irene to feel awkward around someone. And it seemed to make no sense when she'd just had sex with that person the night before. Really, how much closer than that could one get? And yet she remembered what she'd accidentally said earlier, and felt her face growing uncharacteristically warm. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and broke the stare. "I can make it over there on my own, you know," he said.

"Yes," Irene said, stepping out of his way. Sherlock trudged across the room to the tub. He started to methodically remove the plasters and other medical dressings he'd applied the day before, tossing them in the bin. Irene silently approached, but stayed a bit at a distance as he finished removing the coverings. He hesitated momentarily, glancing over instinctively before seeming to realise he had nothing to hide from her and removing his boxers. She remained a few feet away as he stepped into the hot water, hissing.

"Is this supposed to soothe my skin or melt it?" he asked, giving her an annoyed look.

_Only you, Sherlock,_  she thought with a mental shake of her head. But her mood was sobered again as she watched how his muscles shivered even as he lowered himself into steaming water. Between whatever obviously vicious up close fight he'd just had with Moran, a year and a half of being on the run, and the beginning of his cocaine withdrawal, his muscles must be taxed beyond reason. And that wasn't even considering the previous night's activities. Irene had an idea, then dismissed it as too sentimental, then resigned herself to it anyway. Looking down at Sherlock, she remarked, "Is it as awful as you feared?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "It's tolerable," he said.

"It'll be better if you relax," she pointed out.

"Which is incredibly easy to do whilst someone's standing over you telling you how relaxed you should be," he countered dryly.

Irene couldn't help smiling again. "I was going to pop out anyway. Just for a moment. I have to go get something from downstairs," she half explained.

Sherlock was giving her a wary look. "Should I be worried?" behind his usual standoffishness, Irene thought she detected a touch of genuine nervousness. Most likely, he was concerned she wouldn't come back.

Irene approached the free-standing tub and perched herself on one side of it, looking down intently at Sherlock. "I'm not leaving. I promise." There was a beat, then she leaned down instinctively and gave him a gentle kiss. She realised partway through, about the time that Sherlock entangled his wet hands in her hair and parted her lips with his tongue, that she'd been quite right about thinking this was a better way for them to communicate their feelings than talking. Certainly it was less complicated than dancing around certain words or phrases or metaphors. When Irene finally pulled back, coming up for air and to relieve the awkward crook in her back, she saw that a great deal of worry seemed to have melted from Sherlock's features. He even sank down a little further in the water, resting his head against the edge of the tub and closing his eyes for just a second.

"Enjoy your bath. I'll be back in a moment," Irene said. She exchanged one last indefinable look with Sherlock before standing, tightening the tie on her dressing gown, taking a room key off the desk, and heading out the door. She had the presence of mind to hang a 'do not disturb' sign on the door knob before making her way downstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being a bit late with this chapter. I was out of town at a friend's wedding. And now I'm posting this then running off to San Diego for Comic Con, so expect the final chapter Sunday night or Monday morning when I've come back down to earth.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support. Enjoy!

When Irene returned several minutes later, she was pleased to see that Sherlock seemed to have actually relaxed into his bath. His head was resting on the porcelain edge of the tub and his eyes were closed, his wet hair indicating he'd already washed it. In fact, Irene was half convinced he might be asleep, and set the pile of sheets and the bottle she'd snagged from downstairs as gingerly as she could on the desk. As she moved into the bathroom and turned on the shower, however, she saw Sherlock open his eyes and look over at her lazily. Irene held his gaze, staring from her room to his through the glass walls dividing them. Then, without looking away, she undid the tie of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.

Maintaining eye contact, Irene stepped into the shower and let the water cascade over her. As she felt her heart beating harder at the erotic vulnerability of this shower, she decided she  _really_  enjoyed the set up of this hotel. Sherlock had sat up a little straighter in the tub, but his expression was one more of concentration than desire. In fact, his evaluative stare was so intense it made Irene mildly nervous, to her great surprise. She turned away from Sherlock, lifting her face towards the shower head as she reached for the shampoo and started lathering up her hair.

Irene kept on with her usual showering, though perhaps she moved a bit more sensuously and slowly knowing that Sherlock was still watching her. She hadn't turned around but could feel his intense gaze nonetheless, as if it were burning through the back of her ribcage and into her chest. But she was immensely practiced at both composure and seduction. When she turned off the shower, Irene wrapped a towel around her hair but left the rest of her body exposed. She met Sherlock's eyes again as she strode slowly, deliberately over to him. She stopped at the foot of his tub, staring down at his silent, focused features. "You're allowed to do more than look, you know," she said in a velvety tone.

Sherlock blinked, as if being pulled from some altered state. "Yes," he said finally.

Irene raised an eyebrow. "Yes you know that or yes you'd like to do more?" she asked, leaning forward and putting her hands on either side of the tub. "You've been ogling for a good fifteen minutes. Would you like me to join you?" she asked, her gaze dark.

"Memorising," he replied incongruously. Irene gave him a confused look. His eyes flicked up to her face. "I was memorising, not  _ogling_ ," he said the word with distaste, as if open desire were beneath him. There might be something to that. Irene felt her heart speed up much more at the thought of him cataloguing and memorising every part of her than it would have at the simple, usual lecherous gaping she got from most people. She knew how meticulous Sherlock was, how pristine his memory, and how valuable the space in his brain. If he wanted to commit her to his files, it was a much greater compliment than simply wanting to have her once more. Irene found her breath had become shallow and anxious under his stare.

Finally Sherlock looked away, breaking the intense moment, and muttered, "Anyway, I don't know that I feel up to much more at the moment."

Irene nodded in understanding, remembering her realisation about his raw physical and emotional state, and resumed her original plan. Standing, she headed back to the bathroom and quietly put on her dressing gown again. Then she moved to the bed and began ripping the sweat-drenched sheets away. From behind her, Sherlock asked, "Don't they have people to do that?"

Irene glanced briefly back over her shoulder at him. "Yes. Shall I tell them to come right in now?" By the look on his face, she knew he acquiesced to her point. Turning back to the bed, she finished removing the sheets and tossed them unceremoniously into the corner of the room. Then she took the clean, folded sheets she'd got from the front desk and set about making the bed once more. "Besides, I  _do_  know how to change some bedclothes. I'm quite an accomplished woman." Once she was done, she went back to the bathroom and grabbed a large, fluffy towel from off the rack. She approached Sherlock once more and held the towel out to him. "Here," she said.

He gave her a pointed look. "So I'm under orders to relax right up to the moment when you decide I can't any longer?"

"Yes," she replied with a bright smile. He let out a long, resigned sigh before pulling the plug on the bath's drain. She leant him a hand and helped pull the lethargic man to his feet and out of the tub. Then she tossed the towel on his head and, in a moment of uncharacteristic frivolity, ruffled his wavy hair until it was semi-dry. Sherlock didn't seem to know quite what to make of that, and he gave her a shocked and slightly suspicious look as he slowly pulled the towel from his shoulders and started gingerly drying off his bruised, scraped body. At the same time, Irene unwrapped the towel from her own head and squeezed much of the moisture from her long hair.

Once Sherlock was dry, he moved to tie the towel around his waist and took a step in the direction of his bag and presumably some fresh clothes. But Irene put a hand on his waist to stop him, shaking her head. "What?" he asked warily.

She nodded in the direction of the bed. "Lie down on your stomach," she said, trying very hard to sound gentle rather than her much more practiced commanding tone. She undid the towel around his waist and dropped it to the ground.

Sherlock's breathing had grown audibly louder, his muscles seeming to tense as if a fight or flight response had been triggered. "Why?" he asked.

Irene's natural inclination in such a situation was to tell the man to not ask questions, perhaps even to slap him in punishment for doing so. But this was not a normal situation for her, and instead she found herself saying gently and without thinking, "Trust me."

The more remarkable thing was that he  _did_  trust her, even if he still looked a little uncertain as he climbed onto the bed and lay flat on his stomach, his head turned to the side so he could see her. He might trust her, but evidently that didn't make him any less inquisitive. He eyed her as she grabbed the bottle she'd snagged from downstairs, not entirely with permission from the masseuse. "What's that?" he demanded, as if she were holding a cobra.

"Massage oil," Irene replied matter-of-factly, approaching and setting it down on the bedside table.

This forced Sherlock to turn his head the other direction to see her now. He propped himself up on his elbows and eyed her warily. "For?" he asked.

Irene gave him a blank, sarcastic look. "A pie-making competition," she deadpanned.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but really it was he who had decided to be so deliberately dense in the first place. His brow furrowed. "I've never had a massage before."

"So I gathered. You don't like relaxing," Irene pointed out with a mock-serious nod. She pumped some oil onto her hands and sidled up next to Sherlock on the bed. His eyes turned up to meet hers. "Honestly, I thought with everything you've been putting your body through, it deserves something in return."

He wavered for a moment before exhaling, lowering himself gingerly back onto the bed, and saying, "All right. I can't promise I'll enjoy it but give it a whirl if you like."

Irene couldn't help smiling a little fondly at his specific brand of disagreeability. She stood a moment, just long enough to swing her right leg over his hips so that she was able to settle onto her knees, straddling his low back for a better angle. She made sure to keep the layer of her dressing gown between them, more for her own control than his. He grunted a little when she settled her weight on him, and she pushed up on her knees to relieve the pressure, a bit worried she might have crushed some bruise on the other side. "You all right?"

"Yes," he said, his voice constricted by laying on his own windpipe. "I very much doubt you'd be able to hurt me."

Irene bit her lip, using all of her will power not to rise to that unwitting challenge. It was such a natural sort of reaction for what she did. But she'd seen how Sherlock reacted to being a party to her usual work. It would be a vast understatement to say it had gone badly. She didn't think she'd ever forgive herself for that night months ago when she had tied him up and unearthed his heart, only to slice right through it. Now, as she rubbed the oil over his shoulders, Irene felt strangely like she was doing penance for her sins. She used her strong hands – accustomed to hitting and dragging and wrenching – to instead begin kneading the tension from his shoulders. She immediately realised she could apply more pressure because the muscles on Sherlock's upper back and shoulders felt like they were made of concrete. Not in a toned, fit way so much as a manner indicative of carrying an unfathomable amount of tension there. There weren't distinct knots so much as there was simply one large bundle of muscle, tendon, and bone. Irene started pressing nearly hard enough to cause bruises, and Sherlock moaned in pain. She slowed. "Too much?"

After taking a few ragged breaths, Sherlock replied, "No. It hurts but... oddly feels good at the same time."

"That's the general idea," Irene said. She resumed her work, now pushing the muscles slowly from the bottom of his right shoulder blade up to the nape of his neck, trying to force the muscles there to loosen. As she repeated the motion, she asked, "What hurts?"

She half expected Sherlock to be his usual contentious self and insist that he was mostly fine. Instead he paused several seconds before replying honestly, "Everything."

Irene's treacherous heart ached at his answer. She stopped moving her hands long enough to lean forward and place a light kiss on the back of his neck. His eyes fell closed and his body shivered. God, how Irene wanted to take this scenario in a different direction. There were so many thoughts in her head, so many ideas for things she could do to him. But right now this was what he needed. So instead she put some more oil on her hands, sat back up, and began focusing intently on kneading the hard planes of Sherlock's back. She took her time, moving from one area to the next only when she could actually feel his muscles loosening a little. She paid attention to every part individually – each small juncture in his shoulders, every intercostal muscle between his ribs, all the vertebrae along his bony spine. Every once in a while, Sherlock would wince or even make a small sound of pain. But Irene knew that much of that was good pain, the sort of pain that came with exorcising an even deeper source of anguish.

Irene had spent a good thirty minutes working on his back before she slowly lifted herself off of him and settled onto the bed beside him. Then she scooted up towards the head of the bed, turned her back to the headboard, knelt, sat back on her heels, and smoothed the soft fabric of her robe. Sherlock had turned his head to his right to see her. A sort of quiet, reverent atmosphere had developed, and Irene didn't even want to speak for fear of breaking it. Looking down at him, she put a gentle hand on his far shoulder and pulled it towards her. Taking the hint, Sherlock rolled over towards her, onto his back, his head resting in her lap. He was looking up at her, his breath even and calm but his brow tight with some unknown anxiety. With him in the state he was now, and had been for the last year, there were a thousand possible causes for it. And Irene felt the curious need to wipe away all of them. Instinctively, she bent down and kissed him slowly but almost chastely. When she pulled back, the tension on his face had at least partly been replaced with guarded awe. But as with so many things where Sherlock was concerned, there was a shadow lurking over it.

Irene took a bit more massage oil in her hands and began rubbing deep, slow circles across his cheekbones. She expanded the motion up to the ridge of his brow, pausing to rub the often present crease between his eyebrows with both her thumbs. All of his earlier cheekiness had melted away as he'd slowly but surely given himself over to her ministrations. It might not seem extraordinary to most people, letting a lovely woman give you a massage. But for Sherlock, Irene recognised, this was a singularly vulnerable and trusting moment. They both knew the things she was so deliberately and carefully kneading away; they both knew it was much more than some sore muscles. And that these were things he never let anyone else see. But in the past year, Irene had seen it all, aspects of him he'd never have let her view had he been sober. Sherlock had nothing left to hide from her, and more significantly, even seemed to realise this. She ran her hands along his jaw line, then up to his earlobes, massaging them slowly between her fingers.

When Irene moved on to the front of his shoulders, she started applying much harder pressure. That is, until she pushed down a little too far, hitting one of his bruises and causing him to hiss and open his eyes, breaking the serenity of the moment. "Sorry," she whispered. Making a decision, she slid out from underneath him, allowing his head to fall back gently on the bed as she gave her own legs a much needed stretch. They were painfully tingly after having been folded beneath her in that way, but she didn't mind one bit. After all, who was she to complain about her legs going to sleep when Sherlock was lying there looking like he'd been used as a punching bag?

And perhaps that wasn't far off. From the way the bruises and scratches were all concentrated on Sherlock's chest and arms, it seemed Moran's strikes had been frantic, that he'd never had a chance to get much of an upper hand. Sherlock must have been facing and restraining him. She found herself involuntarily wondering if Sherlock had strangled the man to death. It would explain how the detective had wound up with such thorough bruising all across his chest; it would be hard to get those if you were defending yourself at all. But if you were concentrating instead on crushing someone's windpipe with both your hands…

Irene closed her eye against the image forming in her mind. Unfortunately, when she opened them again, she saw that the crease in Sherlock's brow had returned. Instead of answering his silent question, Irene scooted down so that she was sitting beside his hips, turned around on the bed to face him, and began to run her fingertips over his bruises with the most careful of touches. Sherlock's breath hitched and his lips parted fractionally. Irene's eyes flicked between the bruises and his face before she leaned over, letting her long, still damp hair fall on his skin, and gently kissed a deep purple bruise on Sherlock's sternum. She felt him shudder beneath her with a very different sort of sensation than the 'good pain' of a massage. Irene lifted her lips off his skin and glanced up at him with just her eyes. His breathing was shallow and his pupils dilated as he looked down at her.

Taking that as encouragement, Irene looked back at his bruises, feathering another kiss around the edge of one. She inhaled the light aromatic scent of his skin from the sea salts, then breathed out warmly. Sherlock's stomach rose and fell in an irregular pattern, as if he were half holding his breath in anticipation. Irene continued moving slowly, turning her head and rubbing her cheek gently against him. Then she moved to a scraped area on the side of his ribcage, her damp hair trailing along sensuously, leaving tiny wet tracks over his skin. When she reached the reddened skin on his side, Irene laid a long, open mouthed kiss there as if rubbing in a balm. Sherlock's muscles trembled, but he remained silent still.

Determined to change that, Irene suddenly broke the kiss at his side, moved her head up and inward a ways, then blew a long, hot breath against his nipple. The flesh hardened, and Sherlock made a small sound of pleasure in the back of his throat. Smiling, Irene darted her tongue out, causing him to draw a sharp breath before she unexpectedly pressed more of herself onto him, leaned across his chest, and began sucking on his other nipple. As she did so, her wet locks fell intentionally against his abdomen. Meanwhile, her manicured nails drew light patterns up and down his sides. The combination of sensations had the desired effect on Sherlock. He groaned and arched his back a little. She could feel him growing aroused, even through the layer of her dressing gown that separated them. Irene chuckled against him as she nipped lightly at his sensitive skin. She took a moment to lift her head and look up at him, drinking in the sight. His eyes were tightly shut, his hands groping out until they found purchase on her scalp. It was like a blind man seeing with his hands.  _Best give him something to watch, then,_  Irene thought with a wicked grin.

She placed a hand on either side of Sherlock and began pushing herself slowly downward, her tongue and lips brushing gingerly but suggestively against his skin. She moved down to his navel, pausing a moment to dip her tongue in, which caused him to groan magnificently. Irene then placed a kiss below his navel, moving her head so that her damp hair dripped down against his rapidly growing arousal. Just as she moved her head even lower and breathed hotly against him, Sherlock let out a strangled gasp, moved his hands to her shoulders, and pulled her sharply away from him. Looking up at him, Irene could see the barely contained madness in his expression. His breathing was ragged and hungry as he choked out, "No. I want you. All of you." He seemed half desperate, and not just with ordinary desire.

Irene gave him a lightly questioning look. "You mentioned you were tired..." she pointed out, though the burning feeling in her own abdomen certainly hoped he'd say he wasn't after all.

Sherlock swallowed heavily and shook his head. "I'll manage," he rasped.

That was all Irene needed to hear. She smiled slowly, sitting up. She threw a leg over him and crawled up to his face, where she brushed a damp curl out of his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll do most the work," she breathed, and he had enough energy at least to crane his neck and capture her lips with his own. Irene ran a hand lightly over his scalp, and Sherlock's own hands went to her waist. After a long, breathless kiss, Irene sat up on his stomach. She reached down and slowly drew the fabric of the robe out from under her until her hot, sensitive flesh connected with the his skin. He stared up at her, his lips parted in anticipation. Irene ground instinctively against him, and felt both their breaths hitch and their arousal spike. He'd instinctively drawn his knees up a little. Slowly, Irene lifted herself off his stomach, slid down towards his knees, and hovered above him. One glance at his face allayed any concerns she might have had about him being too tired. Without further delay, Irene settled her hands on his hips and eased herself down onto him.

They were both so prepared and aroused by this time that he slid in easily, letting out a shaky sigh as Irene settled her full weight down on him. She felt the fire shoot from between her legs up into her stomach, and she shuddered at the sensation. After a few moments catching her breath, Irene began moving slowly against him, her mind sparking with pleasure at the quiet but sharp sounds he was making, the sight of his head thrown back. She gripped his sides, careful to avoid the already bruised areas but secretly hoping to leave a few new ones.

After a few seconds, Sherlock seemed to come back to his senses, looking up at her, his hands instantly flying to the tie of her dressing gown. As she continued to grind against him with increasing pressure, he slid the dressing gown open, then off her shoulders with shaking hands. Irene helped out, lifting her arms long enough to shrug the garment completely off, tossing it aside and leaning her upper body back against his knees. Sherlock reached up with both hands to grasp her breasts. After a moment of pressure, he pulled his fingertips back to instead ghost lightly, teasingly over her nipples. The sensation caused her to shake slightly. Irene's eyes fell closed as she squirmed erratically against him, causing him to gasp and loose his concentration. His hands fell to her waist, both steadying her and pulling her down tightly against him. It was Irene's turn to gasp as the new angle hit her in just the right place. A blinding shot of pleasure went through her. She was only half-conscious of her surroundings for a moment.

So she was caught completely off guard when Sherlock shoved his upper body off the mattress, crossing his legs under her as he sat up. The momentum started to throw Irene backwards, but Sherlock's hands shot behind her to steady her, keeping her vertical, now straddling his lap. Their faces were inches apart, both of them panting heavily. They stared into each other's eyes, and it was impossible to name everything that passed between them in that moment. _Impossible and dangerous,_  she thought. The room was quiet save for their shallow, rapid breaths. The gentle daylight had finally crept in through the window, bouncing off the white décor and adding to the warm, hazy glow Irene felt and perceived. The abject need in Sherlock's expression terrified her at first. Then she slowly thrust down against him. He shuddered, but didn't look away as he pushed back up against her, hitting just the spot inside that he had before, causing her to inhale sharply but silently.

Neither broke eye contact as they settled into a steady rhythm. He thrust up as she drew back, then she ground down as his muscles relaxed. There was a slow, almost graceful ebb and flow developing. The mutual give and take of it said everything they needed to. And if it weren't enough, their now intensely locked gazes did. Sherlock's was unguarded but pleading, as if he knew how surprising this view of him would be and begged her to accept it. Irene's expression was one of unreserved and reverent understanding. Both their mouths were open, as if inviting a kiss but not wanting to initiate it. As their pace began to pick up, however, something simultaneously snapped in both of them. They moved at the same time, free hands going to the backs of necks as they crushed their lips together in a bruising, desperate kiss.

Irene screwed her eyes shut, drinking in all the sensations Sherlock was causing. As he'd committed her body to memory, she wanted to burn this into her own. The taste of his mouth, the feel of him moving against her, inside her, of her grinding back against him in mutual understanding. But it was that understanding and all the unspoken things she'd seen in his eyes that Irene truly wanted to memorise. She wanted, in the weeks and months to come, to be able to shut her eyes and remember Sherlock Holmes. Not the way she'd seen him tear his life and heart apart this past year, but how she'd seen and felt him like this. Honest, unguarded, and full of the most genuine and soul-deep longing she'd ever witnessed. She wanted to remember that she'd felt it, too.

Sherlock drew out of the kiss, and after a moment Irene realised he wanted to look her in the eye again. She met his steady gaze, wrapping a hand around his shoulders as he stroked his hand down her spine. They were just in time to witness the indescribable flash in one another's eyes before they both fell over the edge, Irene going blind with the sensation, holding to Sherlock as tightly as possible, nails digging into skin and strangled cries yanked out of their throats. Irene shuddered against Sherlock's also shaking body as they rode out the waves of their orgasms.

It was several long seconds before the world came back into focus. Their harsh, ragged breathing and pounding, pulsing blood made Irene dizzy. Judging by the look on his face, Sherlock felt the same. In fact, the expression he wore startled Irene. It was shifting into near panic, and his breath was coming rapidly, nearing hyperventilation. His eyes were red and his jaw was clenched shut tightly, as if holding something back. Possibly a sob.

Irene's brow furrowed. "Sherlock?" she asked tentatively. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock let out an unsteady breath and blinked hard. "Yes, it's the... the combination of the cocaine withdrawal and then the hormones it's..." He shook his head slightly as if to clear it, then pressed the heel of one palm into his eye. His breathing was still pained but his voice was forced into something nearing his normal clinical tone as he explained, "The withdrawal can cause a lot of... emotional reactions. It's only chemical... difficult to control on its own, but with this." He motioned between them. Despite his forced even tone and the way he had managed to compose his expression into one of stoicism, Irene saw the glazed, watery quality of his eyes and couldn't hide her surprise. Sherlock looked down, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. "I'm sorry. I've dealt with this before of course."

But Irene knew him, knew his every reaction and indication, and she knew this wasn't only some chemical reaction. True, the drugs had the power to cause him to outwardly express things he wouldn't have otherwise. The manifestations of his sentiments these past eleven months were due to the cocaine. But their origin wasn't. It was his mind that ultimately steered him, his thoughts as they had made love that would have driven him to this near panic attack. "No you haven't," Irene replied softly, setting a hand gently on his chest. Sherlock glanced up at her, his breathing still rapid, his expression guarded. Then he seemed to realise he couldn't fool her, and dropped his head in acknowledgment of her statement.

Slowly, Irene slid off of him. She moved up the bed, untucking the sheets and pulling them down. Then she put her hand in Sherlock's and tugged him gently in her direction. Silently, he followed her lead and climbed under the covers, lying on his side facing her. He was still shaking with the effort to hold back whatever unexpected thoughts and feelings were coursing through him. His eyes fell shut, and Irene put a hand on his cheek. They stayed like that a long while before Sherlock was breathing slow enough to speak again. He opened his eyes to look at her, swallowing as he seemed to search for the words he wanted. There was a long silence that only grew more tense. Finally, Irene realised he truly wasn't going to be able to put these thoughts into words.

Drawing closer to Sherlock, Irene wrapped an arm around his waist and looked at him intently. "Sherlock, whatever you want or need to say... you've already said it."

His brow furrowed and he asked, "Have I?"

"Yes," she affirmed with a nod. Biting her lip, she added tentatively, "Or was there something you needed to hear from me?" She swallowed nervously, prepared to try to put her thoughts into words if she had to. He might, after all, desire a sort of scientific breakdown of the matter.

Luckily, Sherlock's brow relaxed and he nodded in surprised understanding. "No," he said, his breathing noticeably calmed. "You're right."

"Of course I am," Irene said with a soft smile as she drew up beside him, lying on her back and looking up into his eyes.

Sherlock traced a pattern on her stomach with his free hand as he once again drank in the sight of her. After almost a minute like that, he asked, "Why can't all communication be like this?"

"Well," Irene began, in mock contemplation, "It would certainly make bank visits more interesting, if a bit awkward."

He gave her an unamused glare that she knew meant he was secretly amused. Then his face became serious again. "I mean to say... I've always felt it was impossible for anyone else to know my thoughts. I've prided myself on it sometimes. Other times it's quite annoying that people don't seem able to follow along. And then there are the instances where I even wish perhaps to think less like myself..." he trailed off, looking away a moment. "To be honest, the drugs were always helpful for brainwork and staving off boredom. But I still kept hoping they might make me act or even feel a bit more normal..." he trailed off, seemingly unable to continue.

"I know," Irene said. Then she propped herself up on her arm, looking him in the eye before kissing him softly. When she drew away, she repeated gently, "I know." She knew the reasons he'd been driven back to the needle time and again, and that it wasn't just a rush he was looking for, but something much deeper. It may have taken eleven months and a trial by fire for her to figure him out, but Irene had finally realised what he liked. Not the drugs, nor anything that came with them: the clarity of mind, the sense of power, the abandonment, the soul-rending depression, the near death experiences, the absolute waste of life and a brilliant mind. No, he  _hated_ the drugs.

But he liked _her._  He drank in the sight and feel of her as if she were an oasis in the desert. He liked the illusion of being close to her, so he'd kept coming back, hoping some day that mirage would turn out to be real. And it was. God, it was. But she couldn't help wondering how much better things would have been for both of them if she'd let him see that sooner. Because this time, when she had opened up to him, it had been enough to keep the needle from his arm. This time he'd been given true contentment and the mutual silent understanding that came with love, not a poisonous imitation.

He'd had that understanding with John, a brotherly love and patient acceptance of a sort he'd probably thought he'd never have with anyone. She knew how desperately Sherlock yearned to return to that world, to that comfortable mental space. And still, John had never seen the inside of his addiction, the inside of his soul. If John had scratched at the surface of Sherlock's heart, Irene had sliced it open and watched the chambers pump. Then she'd given her own blood to keep him going. It wasn't only Sherlock who was mesmerised and terrified by the truly intimate things that had passed between them.

Sherlock stared back at her silently, searching Irene's face. She could practically see his mind combing through his own remembrance of everything she'd seen the drugs do to him. Every secret longing and pain they'd revealed. Every dark and reviled part of his soul they'd dragged to the surface. And, she hoped as she waited for him to respond, seeing that in the end she didn't give a damn about any of that. After several long moments, Sherlock slowly wrapped his arm around her. His tone was one of realisation tinted by sorrow as he replied, "Yes. I suppose you do know." He stared at her a few more seconds before lying down and closing his eyes. Then he glanced over at the clock, which read 13:00.

"How long until your flight?" she asked, hating that she needed to bring it up.

"Four hours," he replied. "And I ought to get there at least two hours early. Security at Ben Gurion is, as you know, quite strict and thorough."

"But we still have some time," Irene pointed out, though her own voice was now laced with a burning sense of regret she absolutely didn't want to have to face yet.

Sherlock turned back towards Irene and drew her body down fully against him, her head resting just beneath his chin. Irene settled against him. In spite of his hard, bony frame, she didn't think she'd ever felt more comfortable. She couldn't see his face, but she could hear his thudding heartbeat and felt his throat move as he swallowed hard, then replied quietly, "Yes. Some."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for your support! On the subject of sequels, I do have some one-shot sequel ideas and such that I will probably write in a month or so. Until then, I am currently working on some pro work but also a series of short stories that's mostly about Sherlock's early years. I consider all of this to be in the same universe, though it might not all be directly related to this and its sequel "The Sign of the Four."
> 
> I hope you enjoy this final chapter of the series, and thank you once again.

Irene hadn't even realised she'd drifted back to sleep in Sherlock's arms until she awoke out of them. A wave of panic overtook her, her eyes flying open to look around the room. She relaxed when she saw Sherlock sitting on the side of the bed. He was wearing dark suit pants, a purple shit, and leaning over to do up the laces of his dress shoes. It was a shocking vision, an image of the Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. She hadn't seen him dressed like that or looking this composed and determined in two years, since London. Irene's heart twisted, but she didn't know if it was with fondness or regret for that time. But she certainly knew how she felt about seeing him getting ready to leave. Blinking at the clock, she saw that it was 2:30pm. Nearly time for him to head out. "Were you going to wake me?" she asked evenly.

He didn't seem startled. He'd probably realised she was awake by the shift in her breathing and whatever minuscule movements she'd made that he could detect. Because he looked to have that old relaxed yet hyper aware aura about him as he glanced over briefly, then looked back to his shoes with a slight frown. "I think so," he replied, honest in his uncertainty.

Irene sat up slowly, drawing the sheets up against her chest to hold in the warmth that had disappeared when he'd left her side. She watched him quietly, observing his subdued demeanour, so different from the open and almost vulnerable expression he'd worn just a few hours ago. With anyone else, she might have said he'd put his mask back in place, but it wasn't that simple with Sherlock. His calm and assured movements, even tone, and subtle expressions weren't a mask. He wasn't trying to hide anything. That was just  _him_  in his natural state. What she'd seen of him the past day was remarkably unusual and, though a true part of him, she realised it was an immensely difficult state for him to achieve and maintain. He probably hadn't done so ever before. And her throat clenched to think that she might never see that part of him again.

As Sherlock finished with his shoes, he pushed himself to his feet, his back turning to Irene as he started collecting his medical supplies back into his bag. Irene quietly slid out of the bed, grabbing her discarded dressing gown off the floor and putting it back on for warmth. She approached him slowly. She didn't even try to keep the pain and desperation out of her demeanour as she said, "I can't stand to think of you trying to do this on your own. Getting clean. It's obviously not easy..."

He stopped putting his things away and looked over at her. She was relieved to see the subtle expression of fondness in his eyes and understand that his tenderness towards her hadn't evaporated, even if he was preparing himself to go back to a different life. He opened and closed his mouth slightly a few times as if trying to think of the appropriate thing to say. "I know you're concerned." He looked past her as he added stolidly, "But I'll be fine. I've been to rehab before. I know the steps, how it works. I can replicate it on my own. I've recognised a lot of my withdrawal signs already..." he trailed off into a murmur and turned back to his bag.

Before if they'd had a disagreement, it would have been fraught with sharp-edged tones and biting sarcasm. But Irene recognised the shift in things between them by her lack of desire to prove herself right and bend him to her will now. Instead, she remained gentle and concerned as she said, "I appreciate your will power. And I know you imagine it will be possible to do this on your own-"

Sherlock cut her off sharply. "I  _have_  to imagine that. I have no other option than to do it on my own. Either I imagine it can work this way or I give up entirely." He clenched his jaw tightly and turned his eyes back down to his bag. Irene watched as he placed a few items inside in a measured, steady manner. She could see how hard he was fighting against a potential emotional outburst and was reminded that, as much as stoic logic was his natural state, Sherlock had always had a rash, temperamental side as well. The drugs had magnified that greatly. But this time he wasn't snapping out of annoyance or impatience, but out of fear. And that worried Irene.

"Let me go with you," she insisted, stepping closer to him and putting a hand on his arm without really thinking about it, causing him to freeze and look down at her. Irene was a bit surprised at her own warmth, and part of her was even reviled by it. Part of her insisted sentiment was for the weak. But a newly ignited part of her fought against that notion, told her that not only was it all right to show her genuine sentiments, but it was in fact the stronger, braver choice in this instance. So Irene met Sherlock's eyes steadily. "I know you have to get out of Israel. And I know it will probably take a few weeks before you're able to go back to Baker Street. So we'll go somewhere else.  _Anywhere_  else you want." Irene slid her other hand up to rest on his cheek. "I know it won't be pretty, but it isn't as though I haven't seen the ugly side of things. Or that I'm not both willing and able to handle it." She drew a deep breath, finding that inner bravery and allowing herself to give him a pleading look as she said softly, "You don't have to do this alone, Sherlock."

For a moment, he looked as if he desperately wanted to give in. Then he closed his eyes and said lowly, "Yes I do. Whether tomorrow or in several weeks time." He looked back at her, his posture remaining stolid, but pain evident in his voice for those who knew where to look for it. "It isn't as though you can come back to London with me."

That was true enough. She was officially dead, and would be made literally so if any number of people back in London realised she was actually alive. Still, London wasn't the only option. Irene shook her head. "No, but what I said before... we still have  _some_ time we could be spending together, no matter where we are or what it's like.  _Some_  of it would be good, anyway. Isn't that enough?"

Sherlock reached up and grasped her hand, which was still resting on his face. Then he took her other one off his shoulder, holding her hands together in his, looking down at her with a pained shadow in his eyes. "It will only make it harder to go back. And I want to. I need to. Everything I've been trying to regain, everything I've been working towards is back in London. My work. John." His voice was dry, sounding again like a man dying of thirst in a desert. But this time, she wasn't the oasis he sought. He didn't need a fleeting mirage of contentment; he needed the real, permanent thing.

In spite of how much that notion hurt, Irene understood. She knew just how deeply he had been longing to get back to his work, back to John, back to the only stable and happy life he'd ever managed to have. She knew it was why he had put himself through the hell of dismantling Moriarty's network in the first place. Still, she was selfish the same as anyone else. And this thing between them was unique for her as well, though not quite as singular as it was for him. She didn't want to let him go one second before she had to. But as Irene looked up into his face, his features seemingly determined but in actuality anguished in a way few people would recognise, she realised she couldn't burden him with this. Not in addition to all the stresses he already bore. It wasn't fair of her to drag her feet for a year, then once she'd given into her feelings for him to demand that he put his own life on hold to give her back the time she'd wasted. Nor was it fair to draw closer to him, to give him an even stronger taste of an aspect of life he'd never delved into, only to have to end it anyway. In the end, it might only make his recovery more difficult in the long run. So Irene swallowed and nodded. "I understand," she said finally.

Sherlock gave her a long, measuring look before closing his eyes. He drew her hands up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles slowly. He didn't say thank you. But then, he didn't have to. He'd picked up this second language quite well, even if he was likely to forget all of it before long. Without practice, he'd atrophy like a student who, having never used his French after school, forgot everything but the most basic phrases. If she saw him again - no,  _when_  she saw him again, she told herself - would they be able to go back to this? Or would he, away from this world and hopefully free of the drugs, forget this language? She honestly didn't know.

Slowly letting go of her hands and opening his eyes, Sherlock turned away to finish packing up his bag. "I won't be on my own for long," he insisted, grabbing his suit coat from the back of the desk chair he'd hung it on. As he slid it on and did up the buttons, Irene could see how deliberately and thoroughly he was attempting to put the pieces of his old self back together. How the outer change affected the inner. It was more like dawning his own skin than putting on a mask. He sounded casually confident as he added, "It's a few unpleasant weeks, but then I'll be back at 221B and working cases again with John."

In truth, Irene was less confident than Sherlock about that prospect. Things changed, whether Sherlock acknowledged that or not. She knew how strictly he wanted people to adhere to his own expectations, and worried that whatever inevitable changes had taken place with John in the past year and a half, Sherlock might simply ignore them. Or worse, try to force things back into a configuration he recognised. Surely he understood that, no matter what, things would never be the same again. Perhaps he did, she realised. After all, she'd witnessed how deeply buried his fears and insecurities were in general. It occurred to her that it was quite possible part of Sherlock secretly knew full well that his old life didn't exist any longer, and was terrified at the prospect. After all, that life is what had kept him clean.

The more she thought about this, the more Irene's her heart beat harder. She wanted so desperately for him to be right, for things to be easy, for him to stride back to work without anyone caring that he'd faked his own death and disappeared for eighteen months. But even she, master of denial though she was, lacked his ironclad mind over matter will to convince himself that everything would go back to how it was. She knew he was facing an uncertain and difficult path. "I hope all of that happens," she said, and he glanced over at her warily.

"Why shouldn't it?" he asked, smoothing down his jacket.

Irene drew a breath and eyed him evenly. "Things change, Sherlock. People change. Even John. Even  _you._  Or don't you think you have?" she pointed out.

That seemed to give him a long moment of pause. "Perhaps. But change isn't necessarily good," he pointed out, looking away as he continued. "There are numerous things I've done in the past year and a half, many  _changes_  that I would rather not keep." Irene remembered the bruises and viscous scratches on his chest and recalled the image she'd had of him choking the life out of Sebastian Moran. She shuddered deeply. No, she couldn't blame him for not wanting to remember the things he'd been forced to do. Not to mention the wretched, depraved states the drugs had brought him to in her presence, and undoubtedly outside of it as well. His tone remaining matter-of-fact, Sherlock continued, "I've already begun the process of deleting those memories. That will be easier when the drugs are completely out of my system."

Irene was aware that her breath had halted, her body freezing entirely as she looked up at him. Was he deleting memories of  _their_  time?  _And why wouldn't he want to?_  She reasoned with herself. So much of it was deeply painful, particularly for him. Still, her whole being rebelled at the idea of losing even one second of the time they'd spent together. Even in the awful moments, with his deepest fears and desires exposed to her, a strong understanding had grown between them. The thought of losing that made Irene cold. By the time she composed herself enough to move, Sherlock was picking his bag up off the desk. Irene's hand snatched out and grabbed him by the wrist. "Are you going to delete this? These... things between us?" she asked him bluntly, her eyes burning into his.

To her great relief, Sherlock looked surprised, even affronted at the suggestion. She remembered the way he had studied every inch of her, committed her to memory, and suddenly felt a bit foolish for having been so panicked. It was only that  _she_ would never forget this, and it mattered deeply to her that he didn't either. "No, of course not," he replied testily, his brow furrowing. Then as he studied her, he seemed to recognise the worry that was melting out of her demeanour. It took him several seconds longer than it would most people to register it, but still, he did. He let go of the bag handle, setting it back on the desk, and turned to face Irene fully, looking down at her seriously. "In fact," he said, hesitating awkwardly a few moments before seeming to decide it was all right to touch her. He slid both his hands onto her waist. The tender gesture seemed unnatural coming from him, and yet felt just right. "I've set aside a room in my mind, an exact replica of this one. I've put a good deal of care into memorising this." He nodded to the room, then looked back at her. "And this."

Sherlock leaned down towards her, and Irene needed no further invitation. She eagerly grabbed his head with both hands, pulling him down by his hair, and meeting his mouth with hers. He seemed momentarily surprised by her aggressive action, but quickly began kissing her back. It was a yearning, savouring, tender yet feisty sort of kiss. One second they were smashed together, the next drawing back and biting each other's lips, and then his tongue delved deeply into her mouth. His hands went up to her hair, and he pushed his face even more flush with hers, both of them desperate to make sure everything they wanted to say was being lodged deeply in the other's mind. They'd said all of this before. But it bore repeating.

When they finally drew apart, Sherlock took a few seconds to catch his breath and calm the flush in his face. Irene did the opposite, savouring the rapid rise and fall of her own chest, the warmth and tingle of her skin. To her surprise, Sherlock brushed a lock of hair gently out of her face, and she couldn't help giving him a pleading look. "Can I at least see you off at the airport?" she asked.

His eyes flicked across her face, then he swallowed. "I'd rather remember you here."

Irene swallowed just as hard, fighting against the sudden tremor in her throat. "All right," she agreed, surprised at the creak in her voice. Sherlock noticed it, and looked at her in concern. She should be happy for him, she knew. He'd accomplished his nearly impossible goal. He was finally going back to where he wanted to be. He would have everything in life he liked... except her.

After studying her carefully, Sherlock gave her an understanding, pained look, and kissed her again briefly. That he was even capable of comprehending someone's nuanced emotional response was remarkable. But that it should provoke empathy in him was even more unique. She could only imagine how much he must have desired at different points in his life to be able to have that sort of connection with someone. And now he was giving it up at the moment he needed it most. Feeling an unfamiliar rising tide of sorrow threatening to overtake her, Irene turned away, towards the desk. She grabbed a pen and scribbled down some numbers on a bit of stationary. Then she turned back and thrust it out to him. "Take it," she insisted.

Sherlock took the paper and looked at it for a moment. Glancing back at her, he remarked, "A phone number."

"Mine," she said. "My new one. So you can keep in touch."

"I don't have a mobile anymore," he pointed out.

"But presumably you'll get one," she replied, frustration edging into her voice. The last thing she needed was for his deeply ingrained disagreeability to stop her now. "I want you to text me. Whenever you're ready to, I mean. I won't know your number so I can't very well bother you." She took a deep breath. "And this way if you're never ready, you don't ever have to use it. But I hope you will. And I hope you'll see me again some time. Any time." She waited, realising she was actually quite nervous to hear his response. As if she were some fawning schoolgirl asking a crush to ring her up for dinner some time. Irene tried to suppress how ridiculous she felt, and how vulnerable, at laying her desires out so plainly.

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock laid the scrap of paper back down on the desk, and Irene's heart sank. She bit the inside of her lip to fight against the tears she could feel beginning to sting her throat. Then Sherlock stared at her and said quietly, "I don't need a scrap of paper. I'll remember."

And she knew, in this ephemeral language that had developed between them, that he meant much more than her phone number.

Then, finally steeling himself, Sherlock turned, grabbed his bag off the desk, and strode towards the door. As he stepped into the hall, he paused momentarily to glance back over his shoulder. And Irene burned that image of him into her own memory. As he walked out the door, he was both the brilliant, confident Sherlock Holmes of London and the vulnerable, caring man she'd come to know in Tel Aviv all at once.

It was everything she liked.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6 weeks after Sherlock left Irene in Tel Aviv, she sees him for the first time. But not how she would have liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm sure most of you weren't expecting an epilogue to this story many months after it was concluded. Neither was I. But I've started posting the Sherlock/Irene sequel to this story about what happens when they finally reunite in person and it made me want to write a bit of a transition between them. (That story's called "The Way the Heavens Go", and I've begun posting it in case you liked this story but hadn't seen that one yet by the way). But this vignette didn't really belong in that story timeline-wise. Nor did it fit in "The Sign of the Four", in spite of showing Irene's reaction to things that happened in that story. Ultimately I felt this was the best place for this vignette. Consider it a little bonus. Enjoy!

She'd always known this is how she'd see him next: in a news video, pushing past a crowd of reporters, scowl fixed in place. After all, by the time of his supposed suicide, he'd made quite the impression on the media and the public alike. Naturally his return to the world of the living was bound to cause a stir. And of course he couldn't just waltz back in quietly. No, Irene thought fondly, of course he had made a quite literal splash, jumping right back into a case that ended with him taking down an escaping criminal on the Thames. Sherlock Holmes had spent a year and a half remaining incredibly low key, utterly unseen and unnoticed by anyone save for her. Of course he'd re-enter the world in a spectacularly theatrical way.

But she hadn't expected the news anchor's words, spoken over the images of Sherlock and John hustling out of a hospital and into a waiting black towncar: "... released today after suffering a near-fatal cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose of cocaine..."

Those words stopped Irene cold. Drained all the warm blood from her face and limbs. She felt as if it all headed straight to her stomach, because she immediately began to feel a wave of churning nausea. She had to have heard that wrong. She stopped the BBC online video, dragged the progress bar back ten seconds. This time as the words were spoken, Irene noted Sherlock's pale complexion, the dark circles under his eyes, his tightly pained expression. And she realised she wouldn't have even needed to hear anyone say it. She'd seen him in that state far more times than she would have liked. Irene knew what Sherlock looked like in the midst of a cocaine crash.

Before she realised it, she'd slammed her laptop shut, sending it into sleep mode and her bedroom into silence. Irene's legs seemed to draw up onto her lounging chair involuntarily, folding up closer to her body. She pursed her lips together tightly, her eyes closed of their own volition.

As soon as they did, Irene was hit with a keen memory, an image she'd never been able to wipe from her mind. It flashed into her mind, filled all of her senses and she was here, nearly a year ago, seated in this chair while Sherlock lay stretched out on her bed. The memory rushed at her like a freight train barrelling past, rocking the world around it and sucking all the air away with it:

_In one smooth movement, Sherlock unclenched his fist, loosened the belt on his arm, and deftly sunk the needle into a vein. Irene felt her own breathing stop as he pushed the plunger in a little, then withdrew some blood. Then he depressed the plunger slowly, so slowly Irene felt as if time had stopped. When he pulled the needle out, he had the momentary presence of mind to replace the cap and vaguely rolled it aside on the bed. Then he inhaled a sharp, shuddering breath and fell back onto her pillow. All of his muscles seemed to tense up, a sweat broke out on his forehead, and his breathing was rapid and uneven. For a few panicked moments, Irene wondered if he might be seizing._

_Then his muscles relaxed as he breathed out a long, ragged, nearly orgasmic, "Oh_ __**fuck.** _ _ _**"** _

Irene forced her eyes open, trying to shove the memory out of existence. A futile effort. The bed lay before her, and the sight and sounds and emotions she'd experienced were still solidly lodged in her mind. At the time, she'd been dying to see him come undone. Now, the memory made her sick. And the only clear thought she could crystallise was: you were a fling. He's gone back to his first love.

Irene's hands had clenched around the metal edges of her laptop so hard she knew it would leave indentations on her palms. There was nothing else to grasp onto at the moment. She'd always known this was a possibility. Even that it was probable. Relapses were extremely common, as her entire interaction with Sherlock over the last year had proved. She'd told him as much. She'd expressed her worries about his ability to get clean on his own before heading back to John and work. Told him she could come with him. But he'd insisted on going it alone. And he'd clearly made it back to London, to John, even to his work.

Then  _why?_  Irene let out a shaky breath, realising her pulse was pounding along with a throbbing pain in her head. But she couldn't understand it. If Sherlock had all the things he desired, all the pieces he'd missed that had driven him back to cocaine during his time in hiding, why would he have gone back to using? What dark pull could have drawn him into that?

Every fibre of her being wanted to face Sherlock herself. To question him, yes. Or perhaps, as she was surprised to find herself wishing, simply to hold him. No, he'd never agree to that. He'd most likely push her away awkwardly. After all, she'd made it clear when he'd left – if he wanted to talk to her, that was in his hands. She wouldn't push. As much as Irene now desperately wanted to phone him, she couldn't. He had no number yet, but it was more than that. She'd known then and knew even now, if Sherlock wanted her to remain in his life, he had to reach out to her. She'd done enough damage to his mind and body as it was.

Irene had no idea how he would feel about their relationship in the sober light of day, once he'd left the hotel in Tel Aviv and headed back to London to face reality without her. To confront his own obstacles. He'd been so sure that he could do it. That his iron will would get him through the solitary pursuit of sobriety and self control. Of a return to peace and some measure of security after a year and a half of hellish, dangerous pursuits and soul-rending loneliness on the road. Sherlock had thought he could do it. He'd been so sure.

" _Near-fatal cardiac arrest brought on by a cocaine overdose."_ The words echoed in Irene's head, constricted her throat painfully.

He'd been wrong.

Sherlock needed help. That much was clear. And she reminded herself that John had been at his side leaving the hospital. Perhaps, at least, that meant Sherlock was accepting help. That was good, wasn't it? John would do everything he could to look out for his friend. In the end, Sherlock most likely didn't need her help at all. And if he wanted it, he would call. Or text. After all, she'd told him to contact her only when he was ready. If he ever was.

* * *

 

Ten days and twelve hours after the awful revelation, Irene was lying in that very same bed, the one from that potent and awful memory, her eyelids growing heavy and her breathing slowing as sleep swam towards her, when a buzzing sound yanked her just slightly back into consciousness. Irene took a deep breath, but didn't open her eyes. Whatever it was, it would go away.

The buzz came again. Irene turned over sleepily, letting out a small sigh. Sleep was almost there. It had been a long day, with three different clients. Normally she wouldn't have booked that much work in one day, but lately she'd been doing her best to stay as busy as possible. Rendering her completely exhausted now at midnight. She pulled the covers up to her chin.

_Buzzzzzz._

Letting out a sharp sigh of irritation and only half-awake, Irene opened her eyes and rolled towards the noise, which was coming from her night stand, determined to locate and destroy it. Her hand reached out blindly in the direction of the offensive sound and came down on -

Her mobile phone. Of course. She always left it on vibrate just in case, but the only people who had this number were clients and a few acquaintances she'd made here in Israel. Clients wouldn't be calling at midnight on a weekday.  _No one_  called at midnight on a weekday. Who would do that? Eyes bleary, Irene looked at the screen of her phone for an answer.

Irene blinked a few times, expecting to see a name from her contacts swim into focus. Instead, there was only an unidentified number. A number beginning with a +44 country code. United Kingdom. She blinked again, this time to subconsciously test what she was seeing. In her bleary state, perhaps she was only dreaming. Everyone she knew in the UK thought she was dead, and certainly wouldn't have had her number. Everyone but one person.

In her haste to sit up and switch her bedside lamp on, Irene nearly knocked it over. Her mobile had rung four times by then, and she flicked her finger quickly over to the answer button. She paused a moment with the phone in her lap, contemplating all the potential conversations and outcomes that might exist within that phone in this moment. Then she lifted the mobile to her ear.

At first, she merely listened. The slight sound of breathing on the other end told her the caller was doing the same. Was he as lost for words as she?  _He_  was the one who had called. Another few seconds passed and it became clear that Irene was actually going to have to speak first.

"Sherlock," she said, completely confident about who she was speaking to. What surprised her was how fond and yearning the sound of his name was on her lips. And the undertone of relief there as well.

It must have surprised him, too, because after a pause, Sherlock replied, "You know that I didn't in fact die."

 _But you could have._ The thought immediately came to mind, despite the fact that Irene had managed to suppress herself from thinking about that since she'd seen the news report. This wasn't the overly sensationalised wailing of some woman about her lover working in law enforcement or fire fighting, potentially facing danger. Sherlock faced dangerous situations on a daily basis, and Irene had never given much thought to the notion that he might actually be killed by a suspect. She hadn't even  _really_ believed it could happen when he was dismantling Moriarty's network. The closest he'd come had probably been with Moran, and the psychological impact of that had been more damaging to him than any physical wounds.

No, in spite of those very real dangers, part of her had always felt that the only thing that could truly destroy Sherlock Holmes was himself. And he almost had. Overdosing to the point of cardiac arrest? Irene's throat constricted painfully at the thought once more. He'd finally pushed himself to the edge. And she'd done a damned good job nearly getting him there before. Then she'd at least done her bit to pull him back. Now to have him back in the same place he was less than six weeks ago... But this time, she couldn't be there. Couldn't see him. Would he have even have wanted to see her?

It wasn't until Sherlock cleared his throat anxiously that Irene realised she hadn't responded to his comment. He'd most likely guessed at what she must be thinking, though, because he continued matter-of-factly, "I'm fine now. A bit run down, but no significant lasting damage the cardiologist says. Fortunate."

"Yes it is," Irene agreed.

There was another pause on the other end of the line. Irene felt she could practically see Sherlock struggling to find the words. She knew he hated speaking on the phone, and speaking about personal matters, so the combination must be horrific. Finally, he ventured,"You're disappointed in me."

Irene felt a small pang at that. His tone was factual, as it always was when he was sober, but just the hesitation bellied some level of anxiety and reticence on his part. "Is that why you put off calling me? Because you thought I'd be disappointed?" she asked.

Sherlock paused again, and she could picture him stoically considering how to phrase his response. Finally, he said, "I wasn't sure how it was customary to handle a situation like this. Like ours."

"I highly doubt you're alone there, Sherlock. I don't think there's ever been a situation quite like ours," Irene noted wryly, though she meant it.

She could hear him sighing a bit. "Obviously," he conceded, "it's unique. Which makes it more complicated."

Irene had to bite back another sigh on her part. She understood that conversations of a personal nature were difficult for Sherlock. But this was like pulling teeth. She was doing her best to be patient, but tried to give him a nudge. "You know, this will be much easier if you just come out with all the things you're trying not to say right now. More awkward, perhaps, but right now you're clearly holding yourself back and it's not doing either of us any favours. I may have an inkling of what you're thinking, so I can begin it for you if you like." She took a calming breath, then said more evenly, "You called me, which means you knew I'd be concerned when I saw the news about you. But you didn't call right away because you were crashing, feeling unwell, and didn't want to speak to me about it when you were once again emotionally vulnerable. Yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied tightly. When Irene didn't speak, he seemed to begrudgingly realise this meant it was his turn. So he said, haltingly, "I assumed you'd want to hear that I was all right. But it was difficult thinking of how to convey that to you without implying that I … see this as more than it is. Or expect something more from you. What happened between us was..." he stammered uncharacteristically, and Irene could picture the frustrated look he must have on his face at his inability to get the words precisely right. "For  _me_  it was quite meaningful. And I know it was for you as well, I don't mean to imply it wasn't," he added quickly, predicting her objection. He'd been pacing around a room and she could hear now that he'd stopped.

Finally, he let out a shaky breath, and seemed to let his reservations go along with it at last. More quietly now, Sherlock said, "When you gave me this number, you did so with the hope that once I was settled back in London, we'd be able to keep in touch. That we could meet up again somewhere, spend a weekend together perhaps. You certainly didn't agree to be my nurse or my therapist. Just because we slept together once-"

"Twice," Irene couldn't help correcting. She was doing her best to keep quiet and let him speak.

"Just because we spent one night together," Sherlock clarified, "and had discussed the potential for more doesn't mean that you're now obligated to me in any way. You're not stuck with this simply because you happened to have slept with me recently. When I left you, I didn't expect to be stuck here at least 90 days for rehab. But I think I might actually need it this time."

Whatever irritation Irene had previous felt at Sherlock's hesitance and obfuscating had melted away by now. Obviously this was all difficult for him to say. Especially given that he didn't know where their relationship stood or whether it was appropriate to burden her with any of this. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness," she said, continuing quite firmly, "but while the timeline of our reunion might have changed, the nature of our relationship has not. Everything that happened between us, everything we said and did... I think it was clear that we have feelings for one another. And I hope that you understand by now that you can't shock or disappoint me. We may have only slept together twice, Sherlock, but we've been intimate much more often and for much longer than that."

There was silence on his end of the line, but this time it seemed more comfortable. What she could hear of his breathing was soft, almost contemplative in its rhythm. When he spoke, he sounded much less flustered. "So you'd be open to staying in touch," he ventured tentatively.

"I insist on staying in touch. I want to know how you're doing. How annoying your therapist is. What brilliant deductions you've made on cases. What John's doing that irritates you. What sort of underwear you're wearing," she said, the playful curl of her lips coming through in her voice.

To her relief, Sherlock scoffed at that. He didn't chuckle, but his supposed disapproval was almost more rewarding, much more  _him_  than his approval of her flirtation would have been. "Must everything come back to sex?"

"Oh, I very much hope it does," Irene affirmed. Then, more soberly she added, "But I know you have to focus on your rehab. I wouldn't want to genuinely distract you."

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, thoughtfully. "In fact, it might be useful to have a bit of additional motivation. Sobriety is a goal unto itself. But there's no reason there can't be some... other incentives."

She could hear his voice getting a little dry, heard him cough involuntarily, and a smile graced Irene's face. She could picture the faint blush of pink across those fantastic cheekbones. Could recall the sound of his heart nearly beating out of his chest, as it would be now if she were there, leaning in over him. If she could hover with her face above his, she'd see that look of pure adoration that he'd had in his eyes. And she could run her hands through that thick wavy hair, holding on tightly. There was pleasure, to be certain. But there was something much deeper. A connection that could not be quantified or explained. An utter peace of the sort both of them had chased after futilely for years. But it could be theirs. Both of theirs. That was still possible.

Irene drew in a long, deep breath of contentment. Yes, that was an eventuality worth waiting for. "You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to," she said quietly. "But you also can tell me anything you want to. Whenever you want."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. Irene thought she could hear an enormous weight lifting off of him as he said, "Thank you." As if realising something, he added, "And the same goes for you. That's only fair. I can't promise I'll have the most helpful responses or support. But it's only fair that you have access to me as well. Though I'll set the text alert to silent this time." Irene smiled at that. In general, she was feeling a bit better now that he seemed slightly more at ease. He continued, "Actually, I don't think we should speak much if we can help it. Texting would be better. They can be deleted, and if Mycroft or anyone else happens to be watching me, they won't be able to simply listen to my side of the conversation and possibly figure out who I'm speaking to." He paused a moment, then added very seriously, "You do realise you're still taking a large risk by contacting me this much. Are you sure it's worth it?"

"Yes," Irene replied without hesitation. She had no doubt about that. When she'd seen him on the news, seen that he'd relapsed and nearly died, the very last thing she'd wanted to do was run the other direction. But as much as she badly wanted to know what had prompted him to use again, she didn't want to force the issue. She hoped he would let her into that truth some day, but for now, she was simply glad to be connected to him in any way once again. Irene shifted into a reclined position on the bed. Her tone shifted with it, lightening considerably. "Now that we've got that sorted, and you've woken me up for at least another hour, and considering we may not be having many conversations where I get to hear that lovely voice of yours..."

"Yes?" he asked, and she thought she could hear him intentionally letting said voice slip into the low, rumbling baritone he must be at least subconsciously aware was immensely attractive.

She savoured the small chill it sent through her a moment before continuing, "Tell me about the case you just solved. The one that ended with you swimming in the Thames in November. But-" she said, cutting him off sharply before he could say anything, "you have to give me the clues you had along the way. Not just the solutions."

"You want a chance to solve it, I presume?" Sherlock asked, and she could hear a rustling then creaking noise that sounded like he was climbing into bed. His tone was, she dared say, marginally relaxed.

"Of course," she said, unable to help the smile creeping onto her face. The strange feeling of contentment washing over her seemed heedless of the harsh and difficult realities they were facing and of the fact that she was a woman of supreme pragmatic realism. Just for this moment, she could be an optimist. Just for them.

"It was a rather complicated case," Sherlock said. "It may take a while to relay the details."

Irene settled herself comfortably onto her side, then turned her mobile to speaker phone and laid it beside her on the bed. "Oh, don't apologise, Sherlock," she said. If this was the sort of time they could spend together for now, she would take it. Not that she didn't  _also_  want to shag him senseless the second he was allowed to leave the UK and sneak off to meet her. But for now, he was alive. She was alive. That was enough to be going on.

Irene allowed herself a sly, fond smile as she said, "It's been ages since I've heard a good detective story."


End file.
